<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Entrust My Life by Ijustneededanewname</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25160500">Entrust My Life</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ijustneededanewname/pseuds/Ijustneededanewname'>Ijustneededanewname</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, New Austin, Post-Canon, RDR2, Repentance, Violence, arthur lives, they love each other very much and have a lot of healing to do and i am now their doctor, tumbleweed - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:41:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>37,458</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25160500</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ijustneededanewname/pseuds/Ijustneededanewname</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. For God So Loved The World - I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The men that had gone hunting for food arrive back to the reservation with fox, deer, and a story to tell. Their overnight trip to try and find the best animals had lead them to a gunfight east of the reserve. The tribe had heard it distantly, gunfire echoing in the distance. It had sounded like a bad fight and Charles had already been warned by the others not to prowl around there; the Pinkertons had eradicated the Van Der Linde's.</p><p>Charles waits impatiently until the scouting parties report few agents still milling about. When he visited Valentine, he'd already seen reports of Susan and Arthur's deaths, their supposed "killers" having claimed the money on their head.</p><p>He wraps a coat around his shoulders and sets out from the reservation before dusk, riding Taima through rocky hills and over dusty trails until he finds himself at Beaver Hollow. It smells like smoke, and everything is charred. After making their mess, the Pinkertons had left the camp to rot away. Nothing remained of Arthur's belongings, or anyone else's, for that matter. There was a large, black circle against the ground where crushed flowers laid and Charles wonders briefly who bled out there.</p><p>With his hand on his gun, he moves forth, careful as he walks deeper into the caves. He was sure that he and Arthur had killed the rest of the Murfree and that the didn't dare try and reclaim it, but the world made no promises on safety. He saw no signs of fresh shoe prints belonging to Pinkerton's, or tracks proving anyone else's existence.</p><p>But he notices that the large chest Dutch had stuffed in the cave is open and laying on its side. There are dots of dried blood around it and a tooth, yellowed and cracked. He imagines the rank smell of Micah's breath and turns his nose up at it, facing the hole in the cave roof where light filtered in. An exit lays within the depths of their final hideout, a series of ladders made from rotting wood. There are fresh bullet holes in the steps and new markings against the cavern walls, scraps of cloth littering the ground and bullet casings.</p><p>Charles collects Taima and takes his horse up the mountainside towards the head of the ladders. Immediately, he spots distant prints, dozens of them that intermingle and lead towards the waterbed. He follows them with a close eye on anything that moves, spotting nothing more than cowboys on their way through and deer scampering to safety.</p><p>Dead horses lay at the bottom of the hills. All manner of hungry animals had taken chunks out of the beasts to sate their starvation, crows squawking and flapping away in fear as he approaches. He slides from the saddle and collects himself before approaching the carcass of Arthur's horse, kneeling beside the animal to slip his hand into the saddlebags. Within them, he finds some of Arthur's things. Rings the man had stolen off of bodies and sketches the man had made on spare pieces of paper. Charles looks over the image of a serene buck and wonders where Arthur managed to get paint from before standing and checking John's horse.</p><p>That one's bigger, more mangled and eaten. Both seemed to have passed on due to bullet wounds and bled out in the spot they fell. But there are tracks going up the mountainside. Multiple ones that lead away from the horses and towards the tall tower of the rocks.</p><p>Charles slips Arthur's belongings into the pockets of his coat and slips his gun from his shoulder, ascending the mountainside in search of answers. There are bloodstains scattered around him, some markings on the ground where bodies had been dragged for a few feet before being lifted. He sees a Pinkerton badge dropped between the stones and he steps on it as he walks higher, still following the distant tracks on the ground. The tracks in the dust slowly meld into bullet casings and dings on the rocks where shots had been fired.</p><p>When he runs out of tracks, he feels desperation rise in his chest and crouches on the ledge, looking over the valley and the trees, at the moon lighting his way before he sees a further mess on the ledge below. It's a treacherous climb down, but he makes it easily enough. More blood, a few more teeth, and a splatter of spit and blood on the side of the hill. He passes it with narrowed eyes and looks to the drag marks in the dirt, kneeling beside them to try and guess how old they were.</p><p>As old as the gunfight, he imagined. A couple days at most.</p><p>If he did find Arthur...</p><p>His friend hadn't been well for a long time. It showed in his breathing, then his eyes. He'd lost weight and had become a skeleton with skin stretched over it. Charles heard the way he breathed towards the end- how he gasped for simple breaths and woke himself up coughing at night. Taking Arthur to save Eagle Flies that day... Charles had felt guilt for it. He'd started to guess his friend wasn't well for a few days, but to be told outright that his friend was dying?</p><p>Charles swallows when he sees an outline laying against the rocks. Moving closer, he can't tell if it's breathing or if he's hoping.</p><p>Arthur is bruised and bloodied, his head turned east and his arms out at his sides. Tentative steps move over rocks as if he'll wake the man- as if Arthur is just sleeping- and finally Charles comes to his side, touching his chin to turn his friend's face towards his own. It moves easily, so rigor mortis must have dissipated hours ago. The longer Arthur had spent laying out in the cold, the worse his tuberculosis would have affected him.</p><p>There was enough of Micah's blood and enough of his teeth on the cliffside to show Charles Arthur won that fight.</p><p>Sickly and dying, yet he could best a healthy man.</p><p>Charles slowly hooks his rifle back over his shoulders and eases Arthur's head back into place, bringing his fingers to the other man's hand. His skin is cold and pale, his veins are protruding and green. He slides his fingers from Arthur's palm to his wrist in order to turn his hand to a more comfortable position when he feels movement.</p><p>
  <em>Thump-</em>
</p><p>He flicks his eyes to Arthur's face.</p><p>
  <em>Thump-</em>
</p><p>His fingertips press against the pulse point.</p><p>
  <em>Thump-thump.</em>
</p><p>Charles Smith lets out a startled gasp and presses his ear against Arthur's chest. As weak and beaten as he was, there was life in him still. Weak thumping from his heart, blood still pumping through his veins.</p><p>Arthur Morgan was alive. </p><p>=</p><p>Rumbling, huffing, horse hooves beating against the ground and birdsong in the sky. He's being wiggled back and forth and he can hear the low murmur of conversation, words that don't quite make sense through the low ebb of pain in his skull. Arthur Morgan pries his eyes open and looks blearily at the shaking leaves above him, sunlight filtering through the green and glaring into his eyes. The burn starts at the back and he lifts his hand to his brow, covering himself from the sunlight.</p><p>The conversation becomes hushed and hurried as he begins to move, finding himself in the back of some stranger's wagon with a blanket laid over his legs and a thin cushion behind his head. Arthur starts to sit up but a chorus of complaints and a series of hands beckon him to lay down, to rest his head and his muscles.</p><p>"<em>Stay</em>," the voice is soft, but familiar, and he blinks slowly at it.</p><p>He wracks his mind for proper recognition. Somewhere... cold. That's where that voice came from. They themselves were not a cold person, but the place he first heard it had been. Wet, and cold, filled with mist where anything could come out and attack and he'd have no chance in defending himself.</p><p>Defense.</p><p>Defense and fighting.</p><p>His fist aches at the memory of punching Micah and it's as if a dam has been destroyed and the water was let loose; riding back to Beaver Hollow, aiming his gun at Micah, watching Dutch raise his own guns and listening to Susan die. John coming out of the mist, then Javier, then the wave of gunfire and the running. Coughing, running, coughing again and losing his strength with every step. He remembers... Dutch. Dutch who realized what he'd done but still turned his back on Arthur as if he hadn't dedicated everything to him. The memory of that felt like hell was coming to pull him down and Arthur wonders if he's in Purgatory. It's not quite enough to suffer in, but he's also not sure he can trust it yet.</p><p>Arthur takes a breath in his lungs and it still stings, but not like what it used to do. He doesn't feel his body struggling to bring air in, or the threat of a cough rising up in his throat. Consumption was his earthly punishment for his sinful acts and he surely hoped he had time to continue repentance.</p><p>He falls asleep again, but he's unsure for how long. He briefly remembers waking up a few times, groggy and muttering incoherently, but it's all a faded dream when he wakes once more. Arthur isn't in the back of that wagon, but instead he's inside and on a bed. Something wide, and warm, and comfortable. Blankets so soft he curls his fingers into the sheets and breathes like he's never breathed before, able to drag air into his lungs unlike his ability the last several months.</p><p>Morgan takes it a step further to test his chest's strength, continues dragging breath in and there's a very slight rattle in the back of of his ribcage. But he breathes. He's alive, he's breathing, though that felt more like punishment for his wrongdoings than having to listen to Susan die on the ground in such horrible pain from that shot.</p><p>Arthur grits his teeth.</p><p>So many of them <em>died</em> that past year and the ones that lived just kept <em>killing</em>. He kept listening to Dutch's shit, kept silencing himself when he wanted to speak, kept taking Hosea's comments with a grain of salt because he didn't want to believe Dutch was truly a horrible man. There had been love, hadn't there? Somewhere, at some time, that love had been true. There was no way Dutch would pluck some nasty kids off the street just to manipulate, right? Who was he to say? Arthur knew Micah was full of shit the moment he met him, but like most other times, he stayed silent. Silent compliance until he was riding away from Abigail and Sadie with nothing but dedication in his heart.</p><p>He didn't know what he was going to do once he arrived. Kill Micah, that was it. But Cleet and Joe were there and Bill would have probably tried wrestling the gun off of him before he had the chance to punch Dutch for all he did. Javier- well, Javier hadn't actually aimed a gun at him, did he?</p><p>Poor Escuella, having run into that goddamn <em>mess</em>, just wanting to warn what was left of his family that their hunters were close on their tails and wanting their trophies. Arthur assumed Javier felt regret for having gone with Dutch, but maybe that was his own wishful thinking. He had no grasp on time, or any idea on what day it was, or if he was more gray than he was blond any longer.</p><p>All he knows is that he's got no more bruises on his body, but a whole lot of cuts. He's nude but bundled in enough layers of blankets it feels like the height of summer. He lifts the blankets to search for wounds and sees memories coating a stranger's frail body, gingerly touching the scars across his ribs from wounds he must have suffered when he fell from that cliff with Micah.</p><p><b>Fucking Micah</b>.</p><p>He's grinding his teeth now at the images of too many gravestones, too much blood and death. And now he had to <em>live</em>? Live to face the noose, he supposed. He was the worse thing that happened to a whole lot of people, like the Downes family, like Catherine Braithwatie- well, Braithwaite deserved what was coming to her. Slave owner and racist hag as she was, all people like her deserved a worse fate than that.</p><p>Sean's head popping, Kieran's head not even attached anymore, Hosea dying on that dirty street, Lenny being snuffed out like a candle, Molly dying for love and later being burnt to ash, Susan standing alongside Arthur and standing up to Dutch but losing her life to the true rat, and... himself, he supposed. There was Eagle Flies, too. Rains Fall last son, a warrior that died giving his life in return for Arthur having saved his. Eagle Flies died in a way he felt fit and Arthur wanted to commend him for it, but everything could have been spared had he just <em>used his voice</em>. The countless innocents that had been brought into their mess, like Heidi McCourt, like the old woman that took Dutch and Arthur through the caves, like the countless Wapiti men that had been stirred up by Dutch's shit and were now enemies of the government and state. That wasn't even counting those that <em>survived</em>.</p><p>People that had witnessed the massacre in Blackwater, then Valentine, then Strawberry, and then the killing of most of the police force in Saint Denis. Then Annesburg, when Dutch wanted the papers. Then the oil fields, because Eagle Flies and the Wapiti were angry and Dutch knew exactly which words to say to convince them it was a good idea.</p><p>Arthur realizes he's crying when the droplets run into his ears. They run cold quickly and he wonders if he's actually dead, biting his lip between his teeth to keep from making noise, but he's able to breathe well enough, so his body decides he's <em>going</em> to cry. At first its quiet sniffles and soundless sobbing before the sobs grow audible and he's almost wailing at the feeling of pain in his heart. Heaving out large sighs he shouldn't be capable of beneath a mountain of blankets that are making him sweat, eyes twisted closed and thin fingers curling into the fur lined comfort he was residing in.</p><p>Finally pain comes to his chest and the tears die away, leaving him with a runny nose and overworked eyes. He rolls slowly on to his side and stares blearily at a knot in the wooden floor, fingers hanging out from under the blanket. An age old feeling in him wants to get up and find his clothes, to arm himself and get out, but the rest of him is too tired. He should be dead, and when he lifts his eyes to the nightstand beside him, he finds that he is.</p><p>Technically.</p><p>Blackwater newspaper says that he had been killed in a shootout alongside Susan. That Micah and Dutch were still on the run, but a good number of them had been eradicated. Now the country could "rest easy" and keep focusing on their <em>Indian Wars</em>, apparently.</p><p>He manages to prop himself on his elbow and the room spins in front of him. Arthur blinks several times and slips his arm out from under the blanket, touching the side of his skull. There's a basin in this room with a mirror, but he doubts he wants to see any more of himself than he already can. Scars and cuts lined this strange body, but he was connected to it and he knew it was his. Enough of his that he'd have to face the fact he was alive, and breathing, and existing as a shell of his former self.</p><p>Arthur sits up higher and it feels like his head is twirling. He reaches out to balance against the nightstand and huffs, dragging the bison blanket with him as he very slowly stands. That proves far more difficult work than he intended, so he sits back down and lets his spine adjust. Arthur looks down at his legs and finds himself pale, nothing but skin stretched over hollow bones. There's a pitcher of water on the bedside table and he goes to lift it with one hand, then finds he needs both and even then its a struggle. He brings it to his lips and pours the liquid down his throat, humming like he's just been given the gift of life again.</p><p>Maybe he had.</p><p>Eventually, he stands. His toes curl into the edge of a rug and he looks down at it, feeling his head spin when he moves too fast. Arthur raises his eyes again, the pattern of a persian rug burned into his brain, and swallows. He focuses on that basin and takes an unsteady step, then another, and a third until he's standing in front of a mirror with that bison blanket pulled around his shoulders.</p><p>And he is as weak looking as he thought he had been. His cheekbones were hollowed and his eyes were gaunt, like he'd gotten two black eyes and they were going to stay. There were healed cuts on his face, red turning to pink, and that was about the only color left behind, aside from the flash of his blue eyes and the strain of the tuberculosis against his sockets. Black sockets, at that. His neck looks like a chicken's and his collar bones jut out like he was John Marston at 14, and then he makes himself smile a little. But as he separates the blanket to look over himself, it just gets worse. He can the outline of his ribcage from the top of his chest to the bottom, and his hipbones stick out almost like tree branches. The sockets in his shoulders stick out and there's a weird jutting of bone in his upper thighs, near his ass and he hadn't seen that on a person since he was on the streets.</p><p>But he <em>can </em>see himself in that weak man. Just enough he wants to spit a negative comment out, but he's tired.</p><p>He's been sleeping for who-knows-how-long, but he's tired.</p><p>Arthur covers his battered, malnourished body and moves like a shadow towards the door. He appropriately covers his bare lower half with a separate blanket and turns the knob, letting himself into a corridor. It's white with brown wood, the paint peeling and the inside a little worse for wear, but it's nowhere as bad as Shady Belle had been. The blanket is tightened around his shoulders and he pads over to the window in hopes of recognizing something, and he gets more than he bargained for.</p><p>Lights flickering across a dark desert, shadows moving in the distance, bodies walking to and from below.</p><p>"This has gotta be hell..." he says, and talking hurts his throat more than the sobbing had.</p><p>"...hello?" The voice comes from down the flight of stairs, but Arthur isn't sure he has the ability to go to the first floor without killing himself. "Hello?"</p><p>He doesn't recognize that voice, nor does he recognize the interior of this home. A desert was a desert, so it could be anywhere, and whoever owned that voice was his only source of answers so far.</p><p>Arthur clears his throats as boots come up the steps, a body filling his vision while a white hat tips briefly.</p><p>"Where am I?" he starts, his fingers grasping the windowsill for some kind of anchor.</p><p>The man ahead of him removes his white hat to show his brown hair, lifting his hands like he's calming a startled horse.</p><p>"New Austin."</p><p>Arthur's eyes widen. "New-? Where <em>exactly</em>?"</p><p>"Tumbleweed. Your friend brought you"</p><p>Friend? No one knew he died on that ridge, spare for the Pinkerton agents who were too lazy to drag his cold body to be photographed. Sadie had taken Abigail, and if John had come back to get him-</p><p>"Charles. He's out finishing a job right now." Arthur swallows and looks back out the window and into New Austin's night sky. "Let's get you dressed and fed, huh?"</p><p>This man introduces himself as Lem. <em>Just</em> Lem. <em>Cause folk here don't really want to be found, you know?</em></p><p>Apparently Tumbleweed was rotting and scavengers found their way to the saloon and the abandoned mansion on the hill for drink, food, and a place to stay. And Arthur had been kept in the best quality room for the duration of his coma, which seemed to have been two months in total. He had no memory issues; everything from his night on the ridge back to his memory of his mother passing remained. He still had bits of Welsh swimming around his mind and pieces of his father's language sitting in there too.</p><p>Lem brings him beans and rice, and tortillas to scoop them in. Arthur eats slow at first, then he finds himself shoveling the whole pile into his face, staining the shirt that Lem had gotten for him. When the smaller man had said he was going to grab some clothing for him, Arthur had almost said it wouldn't fit, but then he'd remembered how he was nothing but a skeleton. Even Lem's skinny clothes swam on Arthur, but he was so far making good head way with his eating.</p><p>Until he breathes a bean down his throat and starts coughing. It lasts a shorter duration than he'd expected, but Lem has him drinking water to ease the pain and pats him in the right spot to push the knots in his back out. Arthur knows that the man isn't rubbing muscle, just bone, and Lem eases away once Arthur can breathe straight again. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. For God So Loved The World - II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charles opens the creaking wooden door of the crumbling Tumbleweed mansion and meets Arthur's eyes. He's awake and upright, watching Charles as the bigger man stills where he stands. Lem decides its a good time to excuse himself and Charles can't say he blames him; there were weeks upon months worth of catching up he and Arthur had to do. Arthur had been opening his eyes every once in a while since Charles found him on the ridge, but he never focused his gaze in one spot. Just drifted over random things and made weird comments like he was drifting through his memories. </p><p>But he looks healthier. His skin does, at least. There's less purple, blue and yellow mottling his flesh and more pale white of a man that's been shut indoors for a good deal of time. He's still gaunt and rail-thin because he'd been collapsing in on himself since his diagnosis came and Charles couldn't put solids in his stomach without the fear of Arthur choking or puking and then choking on the bile.</p><p>Neither of them speak. It seems they've lost their capability for conversation. Charles isn't sure what he can say, and it looks like Arthur's head is too busy spinning its thoughts to focus well on what's happening. But there's an empty bowl in front of him with a mess of rice around him, so Charles knows he's eaten among getting dressed. </p><p>Dressed in Lem's pale yellow shirt and black slacks with a pair of socks Charles had bought when he'd passed through Strawberry with Arthur hidden in the back of a wagon. They were the least beat up thing on him, and the clothes still didn't look like he fit them well; Lem was smaller than Lenny had been but Charles can still see the bones jutting out from behind Arthur's collar and it hurts to look him dead in the eye. </p><p>But he does because his friend deserves that respect. He looks him dead in the eye and says <em>you've eaten</em>, like its some grand event in Arthur's life. </p><p>His friend nods and turns his attention back to the bowl, long hair coming to droop around his face. Arthur had let it grow out once or twice during the time Charles was with the gang, so he'd let it go and washed it while his friend slept on. But once they got to New Austin and passed that ranch, Charles had started losing the time he needed to shave Arthur's face. Now his friend had the beard of a mountain man and even that didn't properly cover his malnourished structure and the sad expression. </p><p>Arthur doesn't know what to say. Or, he does, he's just not ready to speak yet. </p><p>Charles carries his gun to the table and sets it down before grabbing himself a meal, remembering he was hungry and knowing that the freshly cooked rice smelled good. He takes that food and turns back to Arthur, settling in the seat Lem had vacated before he sets the bowl lightly against the table. Usually, he'd say something. Make a joke that only Arthur would find funny, or fill the air with some comments. They used to be able to enjoy silence together, but that had long since dissipated. It now hung around them uncomfortably as Charles started eating and he wished something between them would snap because Arthur looked exhausted and he'd had a long day. Admittedly, there'd been a point through Arthur's sleeping where Charles expected his friend would <em>never</em> wake up.</p><p>Arthur is glaring at him when Charles lifts his eyes from the food. It startles him so badly he finds his fingers curling around the spoon in his hand. There was pure anger in Arthur's eyes, the same exhausted looking rage he'd held in his face when they'd rode from the oil fields to the reservation together. </p><p>Charles doesn't let his face change. He stays blank and that seems to anger Arthur more because his friend presses his fingers against the table and pushes himself to stand. Instinctively, Charles stands with him, but Arthur lifts his palm and weakly pushes the bigger man away, turning away from the table and asking Lem for his help in a quiet tone. Lem doesn't hold Charles' gaze for very long- he slips his hand beneath Arthur's arm and makes sure Morgan is holding the banister so he can get him up the stairs. </p><p>The rice no longer has flavor and Charles loses his appetite. He doesn't return the bowl to the pot, just passes it to Lem because he knew the other man had an idea who in the basement was hungry. People who didn't want to risk popping their head above ground because they were being chased by demons and thought the dark was the best place to hide, who starved in the darkness in fear of what would happen if they ate in the light. </p><p>His bedroll had found a place on the floor of Arthur's room since they first arrived, but he doesn't go upstairs that evening. He bundles his coat tighter around his shoulders and steps into the winter air, walking from Tumbleweed and the mansion towards the edge of the cliff face. It's all red rock out here dusted with some orange. Crevasses formed by nature and man alike, animals of the same creation. He can see a campfire far in the distance, out in the middle of the desert valley where they could be hit at any direction, but Charles just pulls the collar of his jacket tighter and continues walking. </p><p>He'd made camp in the abandoned stables because it was quiet and most men weren't able to climb like he could. The ladder's had disintegrated, but the upper levels were still firm enough to give him a sturdy place to sleep. Charles needed to be with his thoughts, but it was too cold to sleep out in the bare nature, and too dangerous not only because of the weather. Del Lobos still roamed, and most other bastards had taken a liking to the land around Tumbleweed. It had long since been falling apart, even before the railway tracks went to MacFarlane's, but it'd been the final nail in the coffin. People moved away, then the shopkeepers all got robbed because most of the people had been volunteer deputies, then the shopkeepers gave up and moved too, then squatters started taking over the buildings and gutted them. </p><p>The saloon still ran. Charles imagined there'd never be a time where whisky wouldn't still be served. Lem had a hand in it's business, supplying home-brewed liquor for the bar and getting a decent pay out of it when the floors weren't coated with blood. This place hadn't been the safest to take a dying man, but MacFarlane's was too close to Blackwater and even the law hadn't yet wanted to touch this place. </p><p>He doesn't sleep in this place, only hangs his legs over the upper floor of the barn and thinks to himself over the past year. Eventually he walks back to the crumbling mansion, passing a drunk pair snickering on the ground in order to enter the building. He follows the steps up, then stops in front of the door he and Arthur shared before opening it quietly. He can tell by the quiet breathing that Arthur is deeply asleep, laid on his side with the bison pelt blanket over his shoulders. Charles slips in and secures a chair under the doorknob before finding his bedroll, pulling one of the blankets Arthur must have folded over his body to rest.</p><p>=</p><p>His friend still slumbers when Charles wakes in the morning. He gets up with the same rhythm he'd formed the second week here; wipes his eyes, stretches his muscles, checks the nooks and crannies for anyone hiding before surveying outside for law and killers. Then he moves over to Arthur's bedside and checks his temperature, hand against his forehead. But he's back to a normal temperature, and he grumbles at being touched and Charles remembers walking into the mansion and finding Arthur staring back.</p><p>It'd been like a hit to him. Joy, gratitude- then an absence of feeling before his stomach plummeted and he was left to try and find his way around Arthur again. He wasn't sure if there would have been a more comfortable way to see Arthur; maybe if the other man had stayed in bed and waited for Charles to get back, or maybe if Charles had shed his mask and hugged Arthur like he had when the man departed from Wapiti. </p><p>That could have soothed things, but they were here now. Arthur was grumbling in his sleep at being touched and Charles forgets to pull his hand back before Morgan is opening glassy eyes. Smith lifts his fingers with haste and curls them into his palm, turning from his friend as Arthur tries taking in the room. There's a grunt, like an alarm that he had indeed remembered where he was. </p><p>Charles stoops by the box in the corner and rummages through it quietly. Arthur clears his throat a couple times, gives a dry cough that has Charles pausing, but no more than that. Not until Arthur complains that he's hungry and he needs to eat.</p><p>"The rice will be gone by now." Charles explains as he removes a weathered gunbelt from the box. "I can go hunt."</p><p>"I'm guessin' I can't go?"</p><p>He turns his head and meets Arthur's gaze across the room, slightly shocked that his friend is managing humor. But his lips twist some and Charles stands. </p><p>"No." he answers, holding the gun belt out to the other man. "But you can take this and get used to the feeling of a gun again."</p><p>"Why, you're in such a giving spirit." Arthur's sarcasm comes out venomous and Charles is glad to be rid of the leather belt. The anger is back in Morgan's system but Smith won't dwell; Arthur can be an asshole, Charles was still going to go out and catch them food. </p><p>"Wait here."</p><p>"Like I have fuck-"</p><p>He shuts the door behind himself and follows the stairs to the bottom floor. Out the door and on Taima's back, he's remembering all the different ways he'd imagined the day Arthur woke up again. Tears, humor, smiles. Charles wrangling Arthur to stay in bed, probably watching him deal with what happened over the past year, then moving them on once his friend was healthy enough. </p><p>Not... this. Not angry silence and grave looks in Arthur's face. Not discomfort at every shared stare, or tension in the wind so thick he'd be able to cut it with an knife.</p><p>Charles kills what's necessary and does the preparation near Tumbleweed's rotting bridge. Skinning, gutting, quartering and cooking. He tans the hide and wraps some of the food in cloth, then stuffs other useful parts in his bag before riding back to the mansion. There's another drunkard on the steps, strewn over them like a damsel with his bottle hanging from his fingers. Charles steps over him and follows the stairs to the second floor where Arthur still remains in the bedroom. </p><p>He's upright, and shaving. He hasn't gotten very far, though. He's coated his face with the shaving foam Charles left out, but his hand is shaking and there's one small line on his right cheek where he had attempted but never made it. </p><p>The blade is dropped and Arthur washes his face clean before taking meat from Charles. He eats in next to the boarded up window, squinting in the dark and at his food. They glance up when they hear arguments, or spotted gunfire, but neither of them make a move for a weapon. Charles knows that if they mind their business, they'll be spared, but Arthur is simply too exhausted to try and sling a gun. Arthur finishes his food and sets the bones neatly on the square of cloth Charles had handed him. He wipes his fingers on his pants and cleans his mouth with Lem's stained shirtsleeve, scratching at his big beard in irritation. </p><p>"I can trim that for you." Charles offers. </p><p>Arthur sits in silence for several minutes as the bigger man finishes his own meal and cleans himself up. But there's still anger in Arthur, a mangled rage that has yet to be set loose.</p><p>"I'd like to leave." his friend says. </p><p>Charles had set his sights on California. Specifically, the driest part of California he could find. </p><p>"There's a trail through the hills that will take us west," he explains. "Or a boat down the San Luis. Both are treacherous."</p><p>"Whichever." </p><p>He didn't want Arthur swimming in a river if their boat capsized, but he didn't have enough money to rent an extra horse for his friend. They could both fit on Taima, especially now that Arthur was... smaller. But it'd be an awkward ride, and he didn't want to force Arthur any closer to him than he already had. </p><p>Arthur doesn't look like he really cares. He sits on the bed with that big beard and tired eyes, half the size of the man Charles had met when he joined the gang, and he simply doesn't look like he cares. He wanted out of Tumbleweed because it no doubt held memories and some kind of hell, because there were demons in the basement that took the form of humans and because this place was rotting where it stood. </p><p>Charles hears rats digging in the roof and he stands to get Arthur a horse.</p><p>Getting that horse would mean extra cash, money he didn't have in his pocket because the caravan jobs weren't paying as high. So he moves Arthur out of the mansion and into the saloon. A table that the barkeep could keep tabs on and move food over to quickly. A corner that the working girls who stayed behind knew not to bother and a place where Arthur looked fully out of his depth. Charles thinks he looks like a lost farmhand before he climbs back on Taima. Sitting in the saloon with a blank look in his eyes, glancing around but not absorbing anything. Arthur would wait patiently for Charles to come back because he had nothing better to do and knew that Charles wouldn't let his friend help him even if he begged. </p><p>There's money to be found in the hills. Treasure past ghosts left behind, guns worth a fortune if you found the right collector. Old bones, old bodies, and beat up bits that remained for the taking. But Charles wants the bounties because he knows how to hunt. He'd made cash on animal hides in the past, sure, but he was tired of the comments he got from the white men with their shining revolvers and nasty teeth. He doesn't hunt them down for revenge, or spite, or anger. He hunts them down because other angry people want their skin and they're paying a good enough price for it. </p><p>Shocked eyes turn to Charles when he enters Gaptooth Ridge with a hogtied man over one shoulder, and a guard on the other. He'd made acquaintances with the Del Lobos and there had been an exchange not to kill him if he could provide them with food. He never gave them good animals to eat, rarely did he need to feed them, but they showed their gratefulness. This came in money they had in their pockets, coin purses sitting on broken tables that are tied shut and thrown Charles' way. He earns a little extra for bringing the bounty in alive and Charles pockets the stack of cash before facing one of the horses. </p><p>"I'll give some of your money back if you let me have this one."</p><p>A cream coat with black mane and tail, eyes sparkling green and enough of a wild side that Arthur might have fun with this one.</p><p>Charles is a lot of cash shorter than he was before, but he's guiding this beautiful stallion into Tumbleweed knowing everyone could see <em>Del Lobos</em> imprinted on the saddle. They give him a wide berth at that, understanding who he made friends with and knowing it'd be stupid to try and take that horse now.</p><p>He finds Arthur still in the same place, but instead with a glass of water next to him. </p><p>"Half full, or empty?" Charles asks. </p><p>Arthur lifts his eyes to his friend, then to the table before shrugging. "It's water."</p><p>No humor still. </p><p>There's hardly a change in Arthur's expression when he meets the horse Charles has gotten him. But his hand goes out to touch it next and there's a slight shift in his blue eyes when the animal turns its head to him. He hums to it, talks to it soft enough Charles can barely hear him before they're guiding the horses back to the mansion so Charles can collect what few things he brought from New Hanover. </p><p>He has Lem fetch them because he doesn't want Arthur to defend their horses or enter that building again. Lem bounds out with everything tied and organized properly, laying baggage over Taima's back before moving a blanket over the new animal's rear. Arthur still stays quiet throughout Lem's talking, patting his horse and waiting until they were out of Tumbleweed and through the hills to California. </p><p>Lem gives them more than Charles things, he gives them guns. A double revolver and a repeater, both of which are offered to Arthur. Morgan takes them silently and without expression, simply moving the guns into his holster and over his shoulder in mechanical motions. Lem won't take it with offense; he's dealt with bigger assholes than Arthur Morgan back from the dead, so he just smiles and wishes them luck before passing a grey coat over for Arthur to use. </p><p>Arthur shrugs it over his shoulders, covering the pale yellow shirt before Lem tips his hat and wishes them luck on their way west. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. For God So Loved The World - III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur was always a quiet person. A quiet boy, a quiet orphan, a quiet man. He valued his silence over vocal opinions and often only spoke because others spoke to him. Enough alcohol and the right company, and he'd be chewing someone's ear off because he likes their neckerchief. But he was always a quiet person. Bessie was the first to accept it when he came to camp. When Dutch's backhanded praise and Hosea's stories did nothing to pull him out of his shell. She didn't talk either, she sat with him and waited until he pulled himself out of his own mind. </p><p>But now, the silence was no longer kind. Arthur had come to accept tough, quiet air that dared to stab you though it was your own creation. The same atmosphere at Lakay and Beaver Hollow. He wanted to vocalize his thoughts sometimes, but it escaped him as they rode deeper into desert hills in search of the road to California. </p><p>Arthur can't yet tell Charles that he isn't angry at him. This silence is the aftermath of the worse pain and heartache he's experienced next to losing Isaac and Eliza. It's the culmination of his coming to terms with grief, death, with his survival and redemption. Arthur is slowly realizing he didn't die and now he needs to figure out how he's going to live. After weeks of coming to accept death as a friend, he now has to understand that he was still on Earth as a man. </p><p>He's incredibly calm. It almost makes him uncomfortable because he feels like he wants to scream at the same time. Scream and fight and throw things and yell his problems into the air. But that might trigger a coughing fit, then he'd probably pass out due to the pain and Charles would wrap him in blankets and have him rest like he deserved it. </p><p>Arthur is tired. </p><p>He admits to this some way through their journey, as they ride under the winter sun through the dry desert with all the clothes and random objects Lem put on their horses. So Charles stops and finds a good place to camp, settling on a secluded spot far from this trail but high enough nothing could reach them. There isn't any trash or, or sign of other humans, and Arthur relaxes at that. He knows that the animals can get them easier out here, but he didn't mind it anymore. </p><p>It'd be a change of pace to have an animal try and kill him. </p><p>Charles entrusts Arthur with starting the fire while he situates himself with setting up tents. Two of them, side by side, made of patched canvas and stained from old memories. Arthur sees a spark in the little pit and soon it spreads as a full fire, warming his cold bones with a glow of orange as the sun dares to set. Arthur realizes that Charles has a lot of things. A lot of memories made of stone and bead, of feathers and tanned hide. Pieces that are more worn than others, but some are new. Some resemble the dreamcatcher's he'd sometimes seen dotted around New Hanover, their feather's brightly colored, and Arthur understands that it was pieces of Wapiti that were travelling with his friend. </p><p>He realizes that the gift Rains Fall had given him after he received the Chanupa was lost in his clothing. </p><p>But Charles turns to him after organizing his things and offers that very same object over to Arthur. It's been well looked after while Arthur was asleep, it's feathers kept soft and it's body still clean. His fingers brush the owl feathers as he accepts it from his friend and he wonders if Charles can secretly read minds. </p><p>He curls his fingers around it and thinks about how Eagle Flies had passed away such a short time later.</p><p>While Charles hands him a can and a knife to open it with, he wonders if the guilt is ever going to go away. Not for a while, he assumed. Not as Dutch remained in his mind and twisted the anger in his gut. Maybe that helps him get the blade through the metal. It sure makes him feel tough as he slams the knife through the can and cuts the top open. He passes it back to Charles and his friend gestures for him to keep the weapon, Arthur sliding it into its sheathe on his gunbelt as he thinks of Dutch again. </p><p>Dutch and his words. Dutch and his actions. How those two things had usually contradicted each other but Arthur was either too dumb to notice, or Dutch had desensitized him to it with praise and kind words. </p><p>Words that Arthur would later realize weren't compliments, but backhanded ones that left him with bile in his throat and more anger in his gut. He thinks of all the things he so blindly listened to, of the faith he followed that sounded sweet coming from Dutch's mouth. How Dutch was big, and strong, and would protect him. How Dutch talked Arthur out of wanting to go with Hosea and Bessie that year and how hard that memory hit him when it came back. </p><p>It startles him now, when he thinks about it. </p><p>Charles is heating their food over the fire when Arthur makes a sound at the memory, rolling from his ass and pushing himself to stand. He won't walk far, won't make it far with how tired he is, but he needs to move. Months laying on his back, and he needs to give himself something to do. </p><p>Dutch was despicable and he had turned them all into his little pawns. Collecting pretty girls so he could flirt with them later, collecting strong boys so he could use them as power. Collecting intelligent people so he could use their brains for his plans because god knew if he had any to spare. He must have, because his words sounded sweet enough to Hosea to convince him to stay for twenty years. But then Arthur goes back to hoping that there was love. That somewhere, Dutch <em>really</em> cared. Arthur recalls that after Bessie died, there'd been little to no conversation of it in camp. Not because Hosea didn't want to, but because it had been a subject easily avoided because Dutch had his right hand man back and big plans for everybody. </p><p>Arthur collapses on his knees and feels his shoulders slump, hands going limp in the sand. </p><p>Bessie died and Hosea got drunk. Dutch was making plans and collecting more people, robbing banks and striking out without Hosea's help. It'd been a year of violence and bloodshed, Arthur could see that now. Without someone to stand up and reign him in, Dutch would snap and keep going, keep stealing and pass his boundaries like he didn't put them down in the first place. </p><p>Maybe losing Hosea had let something go in him. All that death and pain had finally turned him into a monster. But he feels like that monster always existed in Dutch. Micah just had the right tongue to talk it out of it's cave. </p><p>He knows Charles is beside him, kneeling but not acting because Arthur's not quite sure how he might respond if he's touched, and Charles knows him well enough to understand. So Charles sits and waits, doesn't act as long as Arthur doesn't pass out or start coughing. But the strange feeling of breathing comes naturally and Morgan isn't sure what to do about it. It's as if the excessive bedrest had changed something, like he had died on that ridge and come back to life thanks to Charles help. </p><p>"You should have gone," he whispers. His friend leans closer and when Arthur glances at him, his face molds into a harsh stare. </p><p>"What are you talking about?"</p><p>"You shouldn't have stayed with me."</p><p>Charles eyebrows furrow and he looks the angriest Arthur has seen in a long, long time. He shakes his head and leans back on his haunches, balancing himself with ease. Some hair comes loose from his ponytail and falls to frame his face, but Charles pays it no mind. </p><p>"And what would I have done? Let you die?" Smith stands and Arthur grabs him by the pantleg, dragging himself up or Charles down, he does not know. </p><p>All he knows is that Charles hands are cupping his elbows and he's standing on shaky feet, attempting to scare his friend into leaving, but not wanting to poison him with the disease that riddles his chest.</p><p>"You should have gone!" he manages to shout, fingers curling into the front of Charles' coat. "Left with the Wapiti and let me die!"</p><p>"How could I have done that?" Charles answers him. "How could I, when there was a chance you could have lived?"</p><p>"It ain't about me living," he stumbles forth, pawing at his friend like he's trying to shove him over. But Charles is still big and healthy, still made of muscle and brawn, and Arthur has dwindled down to a skeleton surviving on spite, and rage, and redemption. "It's about you! You should've escaped to Canada with your tribe. Rains Fall, he needed a son as much as Paytah needed a brother.</p><p>It ain't about me. It ain't. That night Eagle Flies died- that night we said goodbye, I was happy. I knew you had people to be with, that you had a tribe again. You could have lived out your life with them in Canada, found yourself a wife and had all those kids you talked about! What are you doing here, in New Austin with a dead man?!"</p><p>"Because you're my friend, Arthur!" Charles answers. He can feel the bigger man's fingers curling and tightening in the sleeves of the grey coat Lem had given him. "Because the air of Canada would have killed you and Rains Fall understood. Yes, they became my family, something more than the gang, but... but, you're important."</p><p>Arthur shakes his head, but he's not trying to self-deprecate any longer.</p><p>"You don't understand, do you, Charles?" he pushes off and stumbles back in the rocks and the desert sands, eyes teary. "You don't have a second chance with the Wapiti- you ain't gonna get back through West Elizabeth and go up the Grizzlies to vanish through the states and go to Canada. Pinkertons, they're gonna close in from all sides. Not to mention whatever the hell Micah and Dutch are gonna get up to. You could have vanished!"</p><p>"I have what I need." Charles answers flatly, but Arthur still doesn't believe it. </p><p>His emotions are rolling in his stomach and he's scrubbing his hands over his gaunt face, palms burning against the hairs of his big beard as he turns a way. A long, irritated groan leaves his throat before he shouts again, still somewhat shocked that he hasn't started coughing his lungs up yet.</p><p>"You ain't got a tribe."</p><p>"One day." Charles says calmly, reaching out for Arthur. "The Wapiti needed to move to safety and I needed to move you to a dry climate. Rains Fall said there would always be a place for me in case I ever got to Canada. Yes, I may have missed my opportunity at peace, but how could I have had peace if I left you in some doctor's office and ran away?"</p><p>Arthur shakes his head, waving off the hand that brushes his arm. </p><p>"I wish you'd stop bein' so fucking nice to me." he scratches the back of his neck and feels the bones of his spine sticking out from beneath the skin. "I wish you would have goddamn ran."</p><p>"And I wish you'd sit back around the fire, Arthur, but beggars can't be choosers."</p><p>He lowers his head, running his hand over his face before letting out a dry sob. Arthur cries quietly until Charles comes to his side, wrapping his arms around the frail man and holding him to his chest. Morgan cries harder, this time into his friend's shirt, and the warmth and comfort of that has his knees going weak. </p><p>He still trembles with rage as Charles guides him back to the campfire, seating him softly but Arthur doesn't let go. Smith sits with him, presses against him in front of the fire, wraps his arm around Arthur because the blankets are too far away. </p><p>And Arthur dreams. </p><p>There were no memories of his time in bare consciousness, no dreams the night he slept after waking from his coma. But tonight, he sees the stag again. Beautiful, and majestic. It drinks from a stream and raises its head to look at him, watching him like it knew everything he could ever imagine. That animal lifts its head higher and the antlers glint under the sun before it goes out, as if someone had breathed against the burning wick of a candle.</p><p>The darkness doesn't remain. Instead, he sees memories. Or, what he thinks are memories. Of people moving around him in murky vision, of something soft touching his head, then his ribs. Stinging on his temple before he's shuts his eyes in that memory and awakes in another. One where Hosea and Dutch are shouting at each other like a hellstorm, while Arthur sits beside John and holds his brother's arm because he's half-dead with a bullet lodged in his body. Hosea's mad, incredibly and rightfully so. They haven't endangered John like this- he wasn't even to go out on a job that dangerous until he was older- but Dutch had brought him along anyways. </p><p>Marcus, the man who had been with them then, had said that he saw Dutch put John in front of the line of fire. Arthur had beat him and kicked him out, said Dutch would never do such a thing, but his memories move to the oil fields, to the steam and to that soldier's knife. Watching Eagle Flies kill them before that twisted general had the chance to kill him. </p><p>Those boots stepping out of the door. </p><p>The abandonment.</p><p>The fear. </p><p>"-<em>Dutch has gotten more unhinged lately</em>." Hosea and his voice. A calming memory in front of the dominoes table at Clemens Point. It was a sentence Arthur hadn't wanted to think about, something he considered just Hosea worrying too much until he was tied by his ankles and captured by the O'Driscoll's. Until he's carrying dying Eagle Flies to his friends. Until he's pleading with Dutch, almost crying and begging for him to go back and save Abigail. </p><p>Until he watched Dutch turn and walk up that hill, his back turned on both he and Micah. </p><p>Arthur opens his eyes to the bright sun and shifts, covering his face with his arm. Somewhere in the distance, he hears Charles breathing out laughter before something taps his wrist. It's a hat- a stalker hat with a leather band around it's skull. A familiar one, and if Arthur flipped it and checked inside the band, he's sure he'd find a specific set of initials. </p><p>And he does. </p><p>Arthur is sitting up and staring into the hat, reading <em>H.M</em> inside. He slides his fingers over the aged ink, over the stains of sweat that belonged to Hosea, then drags it to his chest and presses his nose to the brim. And by God, it manages to smell like that old man. Cinnamon, pine... the slight scent of his favorite kind of tea and a little bit of coffee. He smiles at it softly and admires the inside, studying the old man's handwriting through bleary eyes before he slips it over his head, a little bit of strength igniting in his back. </p><p>"I went back to Shady Belle and found it." Charles explains as he fixes them breakfast. "We all ran so fast that a lot of Hosea's things weren't collected right. I have more,"</p><p>Charles leaves the pot boiling above the fire and goes to a different saddlebag, rifling through it before he brings armfuls of things to Arthur. The weaker man takes them gently and starts organizing them. First is the framed picture of Hosea and Bessie. How Bessie looked so gentle and sweet, her grey hair framing her face. Next, are some of Hosea's clothes. Mostly shirts, but Arthur finds that orange neckerchief of his and he secures it around his own neck. Then a white-barrel gun with the ornamental engraving in it. Arthur replaces the gun Lem gave him with this one and it sits heavy but comfortable in the holster. Then, there are drawings. Scraps of paper aged beyond their years with lead and ink covering their faces. Sketches, blotted messes, but Arthur recognizes them as drawings he's made and gifted the older man over the years. </p><p>"Hosea taught me to draw." he says softly. Charles scoops some of the food out and passes it to Arthur. "He wanted me to find a different way to let my anger out."</p><p>"I remember seeing him drawing sometimes." the bigger man answers as he serves himself his own bit of stew. "Always drew a woman, or a little bit of the current campsite."</p><p>Arthur breathes out a laugh. "He'd be drawin' Bessie if he was drawin' anyone. Loved her a lot, he did. When he got drunk for a year, he forgot the language she taught him so he tried remembering her by putting her down on paper."</p><p>"Hosea was... a good man." Charles says as he waits for his food to cool. "I can see where you get it from."</p><p>Morgan looks down into his bowl shyly and nods. </p><p>"You know, he... Hosea taught me patience. Or tried to, anyways. Gave me all the time in the world if it meant I'd be a little softer and kinder. I ain't sure I ever showed him how grateful I was, not how I should've. Never even told him I loved him. Guess he didn't neither, but he showed me. Showed us all he loved us with little actions. I wish I would've listened to him, that Dutch would've listened. Thinking back, the one time we should have been deaf to his words was the day of the robbery."</p><p>That bank heist. Hosea had been excited about the two families in Rhodes, then it jumped to the bank and Arthur was too blind in his search for peace for the gang to notice how badly this was all gonna end. </p><p>"Hosea always said we was gonna die bad." Arthur says softly. "I just wished I didn't have to see him go. Not like that."</p><p>Charles remains still across from him with his bowl in his lap. It's a long few minutes of silent reminiscing before his friend is responding. </p><p>"He would have died a hundred times over if it meant you would be safe." Charles says. "If things were different, he would have taken your place on that ridge to get you and John to safety. I think that, in some ways, he did on the day of the robbery. For Abigail, anyways."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Righteous Run - I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur's started staring off into the distance like he could see things Charles couldn't. It's somewhat unnerving, catching him gazing with nothing fixed in his eyes. Sometimes, Charles will look where his friend is looking on order to find the subject of his distraction, but he never can. There's an empty space, or a vacant lot, so he guesses that the ghosts Arthur sees are his and his alone. </p>
<p>The tension between them becomes less unbearable as time passes. These hills that take them to California are barren spare for broken down cabins and foundations that used to be homes,so there's no one around them to hear them talk, or complain. Just the animals and the cacti, the whispers of the sand and the spirits that rest here. They explain themselves as they ride; Charles explains why he left to New Austin with Arthur, how he hid him in the back of a wagon and pretended to be working out west. Arthur explains his past with the gang, of the good times and the times they made themselves legends. What Charles doesn't bet on is how much his friend talks about Bessie. </p>
<p>It's evident she was like a mother to him ever since Beatrice passed away, and he talks so fondly and kindly about her. How he watched her reading easily and got jealous and how she calmed him and sat him down and taught him. How she was the one who wrangled the legendary Hosea Matthews, Dutch van der Linde, and John Marston <em>long</em> before they became boogeymen in scary stories. </p>
<p>Beatrice Morgan is mentioned. The flower she loves that was burned when camp was doused in flames the night of the gunfight. Her soft voice and sweet hugs. The calm eyes and gentleness in her actions. How she died of a disease Arthur couldn't, or wouldn't remember. How her grave looked, it's image burned into the backs of Arthur's eyes like a bad curse. </p>
<p class="">So Charles talks about his own mother. His <em>nêkâ</em>, as she was called. How she was kind and gentle but firm as well, how she shared those motherly characteristics with Beatrice, and Bessie. The way she taught him how to treat his hair and only spoke to him in their traditional language. Words that were lost upon his father when the older man fell to drink, sentences he'd never be able to utter again because the alcohol poisoned his brain and it's mean hold stole his kindness from him. The importance of treating the world and its people with kindness and love, and fighting back when he needed to. Everything he needed to learn, he learned from her until the fateful day she was stolen from him. After that, his father didn't bother, so he taught himself. Tracking, hunting, skinning and gutting. Life wasn't kind to a Black and Indian man, so Charles ran it alone and kept himself safe. </p>
<p>"That's why I fell in with the gang," Charles explains as they move over rocky hills. "There was safety in it."</p>
<p>Arthur hums. "That's why I joined too, at first. Guess I was too blind to see how I was bein' used after a while."</p>
<p>Morgan takes in a deep breath of air and Charles waits for that awful coughing to start, but it doesn't. Arthur lets the breath back out and it settles in the quiet around them, spare for the clicking of hooves against rocks and screams of predator birds above. </p>
<p>"I wanted a big family when my son was born and I dreamed about it, but I knew it wasn't possible." Arthur grows quiet. "Did I tell you about Isaac?"</p>
<p>"You talked about him when you were somewhat conscious." Charles explains. "I know about him and Eliza and how they passed on. Sometimes, I think you were talking <em>to</em> them."</p>
<p>If Arthur was able to see the other side, Charles wasn't sure he wanted to know. There were too many dead friends and relatives waiting over there, too many people watching. If there was the slight chance that Arthur was able to communicate with them, that it wasn't delirium brought on by fever and near death, then it meant his friend was able to see ghosts in the distance. </p>
<p>Arthur stares away again, up at the top of the cliff's like he'll see something. Charles looks in that direction too and wonders if that little boy with Arthur's eyes and his mother's hair is up there, if there's an Irishman somewhere, or Beatrice Morgan holding her arms out to catch her son. </p>
<p>"Were you?" Charles asks. </p>
<p>"Talking to them?" he nods, and Arthur nods in return. "I think I might have been. Assumed I was dead, for the most part. I ain't sure if it was memories, or if it was dreams, or if it was... was whatever we become after we die. But I've seen them, at least. It's becoming more frequent, too. Now they don't just linger when I shut my eyes."</p>
<p>Charles tightens his grip around Taima's reins and looks back to the top of the cliff, spotting a dark-clad individual stepping away from the edge. </p>
<p>He hurries them through the rocky hills and into a canyon. It's drier here, arid and deserted. Sometimes the wind picks up and whips sand around them, but still it doesn't make Arthur's lungs react. His illness seems to be dormant for right now, waiting to pounce. Maybe Charles hadn't taken into consideration just how much dry air would help Arthur's breathing, or maybe Arthur died on that cliff. </p>
<p>"You don't remember a lot of the trip, do you?" Charles asks. </p>
<p>"Nah. Just... remember wakin' up in a wagon, sore as fuck and tired. I remember someone talkin' to me and for some reason their voice made me think of fog."</p>
<p>"That was Paytah. You might have been remembering the shoreline we met him on."</p>
<p>Arthur hums. It'd been a damp, cold night the evening they stole the horses back from the boat. The night they'd argued against the actions but Dutch had spurred Eagle Flies on, dragging Paytah and the Wapiti further into the shit. It was no wonder Arthur's tuberculosis was as bad as it was, between Guarma then everything that followed. But... Charles still felt that something was missing. He didn't want Arthur to be suffering, but they both subconsciously knew that he should be coughing, or at least breathing worse. </p>
<p>"How do your lungs feel?" he asks.</p>
<p>"Not bad." Arthur scratches at his gaunt cheekbone, pushing that big beard around. He takes in another deep breath and they both seem to pause at his action, then he meets Charles' eyes and the bigger man notices the swelling and purple coloring in Arthur's eye sockets has subsided quite a lot. "I should be coughing. If not coughing, then dead."</p>
<p>"Maybe you are dead." he spurs Taima on. "Or maybe you died."</p>
<p>"What would it be called in your ma's language?"</p>
<p>"Hm... <em>âpisisiniwin</em>. Resurrection."</p>
<p>"And what's 'sad, old bastard'?"</p>
<p>Charles smiles softly. "<em>Pîkiskâci</em>, <em>kayâsi</em>, <em>pakwatôsân</em>."</p>
<p>Arthur giggles. "Damn. I ain't got a hope in hell in ever pronouncing any of that... why didn't you ever talk in it? Even for the hell of talking?"</p>
<p>"I didn't see any use. Wasn't like I could carry a conversation with someone, and I don't enjoy speaking just to fill the air, you know that. I was still regarded as 'new' by the time we were at Horseshoe Overlook. The only ones who ever really asked me about it was Lenny, Mary-Beth, and Hosea. Lenny, cause he was curious, Mary-Beth I think wanted me to be more sociable. Maybe Hosea just saw it in me."</p>
<p>"Bessie came from a tribe up near Oregon somewhere. She taught him much of the language she could remember before she died. Many a time I heard them speakin' in it late into the night, private conversations in the middle of camp. Near her end, it was the only thing keepin' her strong. Hosea did his best to give her the the proper burial and rites, but he weren't Indian. And he weren't claimed by her tribe."</p>
<p>"I never knew that..." it struck Charles that he knew very little about Hosea, other than the fact that he was drunk following Bessie's death. "He never even made the notion that he knew any language other than English."</p>
<p>"Well... he don't-didn't. Not really. He knew Spanish, but after he started drinking he forgot all that Bessie taught him. The language was gone and he used to say the words and the songs were what kept people alive- John and I, we weren't patient enough to learn so it was lost on us too. Never really affected us, though. We weren't Indian, and we weren't so close to Bessie like Hosea was."</p>
<p>"A year with drunk Hosea; it must have been awful."</p>
<p>Arthur sighs. "That it was. And it weren't very long before we started collecting others. '83 was when Bessie died, '84 was when he sobered up. By the start of '85, Jack was born and that kept Hosea on the straight and narrow. Pearson followed, then it just grew from there. All the way until you found us."</p>
<p>A bigger mess of people Charles never did see. </p>
<p>"Did Hosea linger on the old days a lot?"</p>
<p>"Not like Dutch did. Hosea did it because his wife was alive then, and there was less stress. John and I were kids and got along, and together we were unstoppable. It was before Colm killed Annabelle, too."</p>
<p>"How'd that happen?"</p>
<p>"Ah... Dutch had a partnership with the O'Driscoll brothers that went south. He killed the big brother and even though Colm hated him, he wanted to exact revenge. He stole Annabelle in the night and... well, the O'Driscoll's ain't never been good to women. They sure weren't to her. Dutch has always liked going through his women like bullets, but I think there was something special about her. He... really loved her, you know? Not like Susan- they changed too rapidly to be able to stand one another in a relationship. But Annabelle was perfect for him. I could've seen them gettin' married one day. Dutch could've had his own kids with that lady and he would've been fine.</p>
<p>But, I realize I don't know Dutch as well as I think I do. So maybe everything I believe about him is just pure shit. Maybe he didn't love her, maybe he didn't love any of us in the end. Maybe the whole time he just used us to appease some kind of greed in his heart and he let himself become who he truly was."</p>
<p>"A monster?"</p>
<p>Arthur hums, but this time it's dark. He tries lightening the air again. </p>
<p>"What's 'monster' in your language?"</p>
<p>"<em>Maci-pisiskiw</em>. Its not just <em>my</em> language, Arthur."</p>
<p>"Sorry. It sure as hell ain't mine, that's all I know. What'd you call it, then?"</p>
<p>"<em>Paskwâwinîmowin</em>. English is referred to as <em>âkaýâsîmowin</em>."</p>
<p>"I ain't got a hope in hell of saying them words, Charles. I can hardly speak English!" Charles smiles as they continue through the canyon. This easy banter continues for a while, and eventually, Charles is teaching Arthur a few words. Please, thank you, hello, farewell... Arthur starts pursuing curse words but Smith laughs it off, tells him he needs to work on nicer words first.</p>
<p>They make camp in that canyon under an overhang with still no visitors. No tracks showing horses, or wagons, or other animals other than snakes. When Arthur shivers, Charles covers him in extra layers of clothing, ignoring any arguments that may come forth. His friend pulls the extra layer tighter around his body and shuts his eyes in front of their campfire, resting against the wall of the canyon. </p>
<p>As they continue riding out, Charles wonders if there's any end to this trail. If California lies on the other side, or if this is another trip not worth making. It only grows more desolate as they pass broken houses, following the worn trail past a well filled with murky water. Arthur tells a story at that, about Butcher's Creek and a mining company. The ending has them laughing, because what else can they do?</p>
<p>And Arthur is in higher spirits. Possible resurrection has left him laughing and smiling, though he is tired and small. Charles can't help but stare at the bones that protrude from beneath his skin, taking note of how the smallest of winds make Arthur shiver. Eventually, they come across a town, but this one is burned like Laramie had been. Its like they're walking through memories and nightmares, they're the only creatures from miles around that leave tracks in the ash behind them. It's blackened and ruined and the general store gives them some cans of food, but not much. The floor gives out from under Charles while he's searching and he decides that they should continue on. </p>
<p>It isn't safe, and there's no building here worth staying behind for, even if it meant cover from the cold desert winds. As they exit through the other side of town, the general store creaks and collapses, leaving in its wake a massive cloud of dust. </p>
<p>Rain starts to come down in heavy sheets by the time they find one of those broken down homes. There's nothing indoors to show them who used to live here, or if it was ever properly occupied to begin with. This home exists as nothing more than a place for a quick rest, it's patio creaking and it's crevasses howling with the wind. Some drops of rain can be heard hitting the roof as they step inside, shrugging off their jackets and moving to get comfortable. Pieces of broken floor works well as firewood and Charles is quick to get the fireplace lit as Arthur pads back and forth behind him. </p>
<p>He hears cabinet doors opening and things being moved, the floor creaking with every shift. Cloth rustles, then he hears Arthur muttering to himself in those ways when he's alone, or thinks he's alone. He talks similar to the way he had when he was drifting in and out of consciousness, muttering and huffing. It almost sounds like he's having a conversation. </p>
<p>Charles stands from the fireplace and moves silently through the home in search of Arthur, finding him through an open doorway and within an abandoned bedroom with nothing more than the wooden siding of a bunk. There's a broken mirror in one corner with an empty bucket next to it, both positioned on the floor, and Arthur is rubbing his eyes like he's just finished arguing with someone.</p>
<p>"<em>No</em>," Arthur says, and the ferocity of it startles Charles. Then, Arthur turns, but he isn't surprised to see his friend. His words are turned to the bigger man. "Would you help me get rid of this beard?"</p>
<p>Smith nods. He has a knife and a straight razor in his things, so they'll have to make do. A bit of homemade cream follows out of his saddlebag as Arthur watches the bucket fill with rainwater, arms around his knees like a little kid. He picks it up with both arms and follows Charles inside, water sloshing in his bucket as they make their way back to that broken mirror. Charles moves it to the windowsill and seats himself on the edge of the bunk, feeling it creak while Arthur rests himself on the floor. </p>
<p>The bucket is set down and Charles starts sawing at the hair, Arthur deciding to go for a big chop instead of keeping it all. It takes a long while and Charles feels his arm going sore after a while. The constant movement starts to ache deep in his elbow, so Arthur tells him to take a break and starts sawing at his own hair. </p>
<p>"I can do it." he promises. Charles stretches his hand as Morgan begins cutting at it. "I'd just need your help cleanin' it up."</p>
<p>"Sure." Smith watches Arthur's skinny arm cut away at it. "You gonna get rid of all of it?"</p>
<p>"Probably not. With a bare face, I'm a wanted man." he smiles softly and lets a clump of dirty blond beard fall to the floor. "But I don't want this mountain man mess."</p>
<p>Charles feels his lips turn upwards. "I would have shaved it more if I had the time."</p>
<p>"Ah, that's not what I meant." he starts cutting higher, closer to the bone of his jaw. "I'm grateful to even have you, Charles. You know that."</p>
<p>He hums. Arthur rids of the rest of it and sets the knife down, running his fingers over the crooked hair before Charles takes over. It's a lot of fixing and teasing, making comments about the bad shapes and clumps that were longer than others. Charles leans in to get a better look at the hair on Arthur's cheek to shape it when he notices how the smaller man is looking at him. </p>
<p>Vulnerable. Calm. </p>
<p>Charles meets his eyes briefly before bringing the straight razor to the hair there, shaping it. Accentuating the bone does Arthur no favors, but it's better to make a half-dead man look clean than to let him look like he's been rotting. With the beard trimmed away he looks even skinnier, and smaller. Gaunt with a thin neck and bones that protrude. When Arthur turns his head away to look at his side profile in the mirror, Charles notices the lumps of his vertebrae that poke from beneath the skin. </p>
<p>It makes his stomach turn. </p>
<p>"Thank you," Arthur mutters. "I don't look like a dead mountain man. Just a dead cowboy instead."</p>
<p>He looks at Charles as if he made a joke, but the bigger man doesn't find it funny. He sets the razor aside and stands from the bunk, leaving Arthur on the floor of this abandoned bedroom to take his leave outside. Rain still falls in heavy sheets and the horses are huffing to one another in the cover of the wooden building beside them as Charles finds his cigarettes and starts smoking. </p>
<p>He's been cutting back while around Arthur, not wanting to worsen his condition or make his lungs strain more than they need to. Charles thinks of how Arthur used to glow before the fall of the gang, the way he'd carry himself like a big man before melting into a sweet uncle for Jack. The muscle and the brawn, the coy smile and sly words. Then, how he'd fall into sweetness. Soft singing and humming around the fire, focused stares into his journal as he drew. Rage and fighting power came to him when it was most needed or when it was ordered of him; gentleness came naturally. </p>
<p>There's too many dead cowboys behind them. Outlaws, conmen, working girls, innocents. A graveyard could be filled with the amount of people left behind, and Charles had a feeling Arthur could see every one of them.</p>
<p>The porch creaks softly with the shifting of Arthur's anxious weight and Charles takes one long drag of his cigarette before flicking it into the rain. He watches it's pale body land in the mud before it's battered by the droplets, soon submerged in writhing slop as Arthur comes to his shoulder. </p>
<p>"You should be inside," Charles comments. Arthur ignores him and sits heavily on the porch beside him. "Did you hear me? I'm serious."</p>
<p>"It ain't what it used to be." Nothing would be ever again. Especially the two of them. "The illness, I mean. Sure, I can feel my chest rattlin', but listen."</p>
<p>He takes in a deep breath and Charles hesitates in fear again. Arthur takes his hand then, fingers cold to touch before he lays it over his chest. Charles curls his fingers into the cloth of Arthur's pale shirt and <em>feels</em> the other man's lungs working beneath his skin and his ribs. Through the feeling of bone scraping against his palm, Charles knows that the lungs in Arthur's chest are almost to complete working order. To make sure, he move Arthur's arm out of the way and presses his ear over the man's lungs, shutting his eyes. Arthur's hand hovers above his shoulder and he breathes in again, long and hard, and Charles knows for certain now that Arthur is better. </p>
<p>Charles lingers for a few seconds before slinking back, taking Arthur's wrist and lowering his friend's arm. </p>
<p>"It isn't possible." Charles says. "But, you're a stubborn man."</p>
<p>"I think I've got you to thank." Arthur lays his hand over Charles'. "Despite the fact I'm tired as hell and hungry- I'm grateful. Still mad that you didn't go with the Wapiti to Canada, though. But grateful."</p>
<p>Charles smiles softly and wonders if Arthur saw the <em>other side</em>. "With lungs like yours, we might just make it to Canada."</p>
<p>Arthur's smile broadens quickly. </p>
<p>Their bedrolls are laid side by side in front of the fireplace and Charles votes to take watch for the evening. Arthur argues about it as they pry open old cans of food, using their knives to scoop the contents out and into their mouths. Peas dribble down Arthur's face and into his shirt and Charles watches the man make a mess of himself as he explains that there was no-one around. </p>
<p>"Anyways," Arthur says as he wipes wet peas off of his lap. "It don't look like I can be killed."</p>
<p>Charles still doesn't find it funny. </p>
<p>He turns over for the night, much to Arthur's joy, and watches the other's chest rise and fall in the light from the fire. His breathing starts to even out as Charles relaxes against his bedroll, curled and watching his friend as he sleeps. Soft snores start and Charles tentatively reaches out, laying his hand over his friend's chest. </p>
<p>Charles feels it. The beating of Arthur's heart, the working of his friend's lungs. There's power thrumming behind it, somewhere deep within him that is coiling and waiting to be used. Something greater than Arthur ever believed he could be. Maybe the powers above began pitying Arthur and gave him a second chance, or it <em>was</em> just Arthur's pure stubbornness that kept him living and helped him begin breathing again. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Righteous Run - II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There's a shanty town still dripping from the previous night's storm miles from the canyon. It's made of rickety wood houses and broken looking people who cough into their sleeves and shuffle about aimlessly. Charles tells Arthur that it reminds him of Armadillo, but he sees no heavy black mist above the town and there is no town crier shouting warnings to passersby. There are no posters warning of illness here, either; the life of people has simply been sucked out of them. </p><p>Unsurprisingly, the hotel has a spare room for them. Even less surprising, the owner is grateful for the money Arthur hands her once their things are in their room. This stretch of desert between New Austin and California seems to be lifeless and sullen, like he walked into hell lead by an angel. Charles takes a bed on the opposite end of the room and pulls the curtains back to peer outside, wiping precipitation from the window and squinting his eyes.</p><p>"Funny place," Arthur comments as he lowers himself on to his own bed. It creaks and groans with his body as if he was still covered in muscle. "Miserable lookin', too."</p><p>"Del Lobos might be running this town. We should be careful."</p><p>"I thought you formed an alliance with 'em back in Tumbleweed?"</p><p>"With a few of them, not with the whole gang. They're too far spread to care about certain partnerships especially since I'm not well known. We might have that chance to partner with them again, but I wouldn't look forward to it. Let's stay on our guard."</p><p>Arthur nods, shifting to lay back on his bed. He doesn't attempt sleep, only stares at the ceiling like there's something to be found there. The mattress is comfortable if not lumpy and he's grateful for it's embrace. Laying on wooden floors and rocky ground for the last few days has done his body no favors. But he's grateful, he finds. Everlasting gratefulness that doesn't seem to dwindle. </p><p>After he lost his anger at Charles for having left the tribe, he found an incredible calmness within himself. It felt like the storm of rage and revenge had passed on when he laid on that ridge, and it felt like he had the opportunity to look forward instead of back. No more wishing on past times, or preparing for a heist with the worry he'd never see his family again. Sure, he couldn't help thinking of memories where the gang was one, before Micah slithered in and <em>long</em> before he ever existed in their mind's eye. When Hosea was stronger and Dutch still had his mind, when Arthur had the world ahead of him and one gangly teenager at his side. </p><p>He smiles at the memory of teaching John to fish. He wasn't very keen on getting close to the water, but Arthur showed him how to cast out from the shore. A warm Mexican winter they had that year; Dutch called it perfect. It was one of those times Hosea and Bessie stayed north of the border in order to "play house", but what Arthur didn't know then was that it was to keep Bessie's illness from taking proper hold of her. </p><p>Arthur turns and rolls on his side, looking across the room at Charles. His friend is running his hand over the covers of the bed, fingers catching in the holes of the lumpy blanket and eyebrows twitching at every tear and mess. He's probably thinking about a thousand ways to fix it, or planning on burning it once they leave this place. </p><p>"How do you say 'grateful' in you and your ma's language?" he asks the bigger man.</p><p>Charles looks up from the blanket and blinks at him, then his face softens and he tells him. It's a few minutes of conversation, tweaking, and pronouncing until Arthur feels confident enough to reiterate it. </p><p>"<em>Kinanâskomitin</em>, Charles."</p><p>It doesn't sound right. With Arthur's twang and lack of experience, it sounds like he half-assed it despite all the effort he puts into its pronunciation. But his friend just smiles and nods, answering with <em>you're welcome</em> as he relaxes in the space of this room. </p><p>Arthur is further grateful when his friend lays down and starts to get some rest, laying flat on his back in that bed with his eyes shut in peace. He stands and leaves Charles to sleep, stepping out into the corridor of the hotel and finding himself in another place entirely. The hotel was dark wood and low burning lanterns, but this place is red walls and torches. Arthur steels himself by pressing his hand against the wall and it <em>feels</em> like wood, but looks like blood. </p><p>"Hello, Arthur." </p><p>He glances away from the wall to the head of the stairs, finding that the man with the mustache has joined him again. Once or twice he'd seen this man in place of the stag, never able to look at him clearly without feeling an incredible amount of dread. One of those places had been that shack in the swamps with the skulls and the candles.</p><p>Arthur feels like he's been transported back to that place. </p><p>"Hello." he answers. What would be the point of getting angry at his own demons? "You were followin' us."</p><p>The Strange Man's lips curl in some sort of snarled smile and Arthur half expects to see fangs and a forked tongue slip out from his mouth. Instead, the man folds his hands behind his back and stares at Arthur with those incredibly dark eyes, Arthur finding only amusement in his gaze. </p><p>"You forgot a lot of things, Mister Morgan. This desert is not unknown to you, just like Death."</p><p>Arthur smiles now, shrugging his shoulders. "I been to a lot of places and seen a lot of things. Been hit over the head too much to hold too much in my head no more, not to mention how shit my memory was to start with."</p><p>"This is amusing to you?"</p><p>His face falls and he shakes his head. "Not really. I'm still findin' my way through this life since I still got it. Not willingly, though."</p><p>"But you are not ungrateful. If you were, you would have stayed in the ash of that town and let it collapse."</p><p>He thinks of the few minutes between standing in the midst of the embers of that store and then riding from it, hearing and watching it fall in a big plume of smoke and dust. Charles had tensed beside him at the thought that they could have been crushed as well, but it wasn't like it would have been the first time they'd have risked getting killed.</p><p>"Did you have a hand in that?"</p><p>The Strange Man steps closer and a breath of cold air brushes over Arthur's face, tickling his scalp. </p><p>"You couldn't have stopped any of it."</p><p>The door behind Arthur opens and he turns to it, finding Charles staring out through the midst of the red and the dim light before it shimmers into the wooden corridor of the hotel. Suddenly, it's brighter and Arthur can better see, so he turns back to face the Strange Man, but finds he's been abandoned. </p><p>"Sorry, Charles," he says. "Just talkin' to ghosts."</p><p>Charles joins him in surveying the town despite Arthur's complaints, the two walking side by side across wooden walkways. They analyze closed stores and remnants of the people who lived here before, watching those that still lived wandering the streets. There's really only one thoroughfare with buildings lining either side, a butcher's stall at the end that looks long closed down with old bloodstains  that have become part of the ground. The jail isn't much; looks more like a few stones stacked on top of one another with some metal bars beside it, and there isn't much law here to start with. Something eases in Arthur at the idea, but he also grows tense. No law meant no trouble for he and Charles, but that also meant that any other mean sons of bitches would take easy opportunities handed to them. </p><p>Like Micah, for example, or his henchmen. </p><p>But those three aren't here. Just other sleazy bastards who send stink eyes in Charles' direction. Men who make comments under their breath because they see how big he is and have calculated how hard his punch might be if he fought them. Arthur wonders if his friend can't hear them, or if it's become so normal that this is all numb. </p><p>There's a doctor's office here, somehow. It still stands tall and surviving and they slip inside to see if they can't buy some herbs. It's about as sullen within as it was outside, with a bucket under the hole in the roof overfilled with rainwater and the wooden slats starting to come loose. The register looked like it was beaten until it opened once long ago and now there's a big dent down it's middle with the tray forever sticking out. There isn't any cash inside, either, just a big metal paperweight waiting to be touched. </p><p>Charles touches the dust atop it and drags a thick layer from the metal, glancing at it on the ends of his fingers as the doctor steps out from the back. </p><p>"Newcomers?" the doctor asks. "We haven't had newcomers in a while. Doctor Theo Mansfield, how can I help you two?"</p><p>"Hello, doctor," Charles introduces himself, then Arthur. "We were looking to buy some herbs."</p><p>"Ah, we're in low supply of any herbs out here. Our shipments from Tumbleweed and Escalera haven't been coming in at all, so I'm afraid it's just been up to us to get our food and fix our buildings." the doctor's eyebrows pull together and he motions outside. "As you can see, we aren't very well inclined to such work- these are farmhands and desert folk who know milk cows but not hunt rabbits."</p><p>Outside two men get into a brawl, shoving each other and punching. They slip over their own feet, evidently drunk, and land harshly in the mud before continuing to slap each other. Doctor Mansfield crosses his arms over his chest as the two other man join him on the walkway. </p><p>"A miserable town indeed..." he mutters. "You boys would be better off continuing west; Lord knows why any of us stay here. It's cool enough to keep moving, so the heat won't get you."</p><p>"What happened to your shipments?" Arthur asks the doctor. </p><p>Mansfield shrugs his shoulders, removing his glasses from the end of his nose. "Tumbleweed has been dying for a while now, but shipments used to come in through Armadillo. Then illness struck it, and we've been relying on the MacFarlane's, but they're too far east. Travelling the New Austin desert is tricky business if you don't know your way around a gun... but Escalera? I don't know. I heard that the Mexican army is starting to quell rebels and I've seen some of them myself; young men and women who took up arms to keep their families safe that had to run from home. With the little Spanish I know, I found out that the military is doing what it can to starve the residents. I don't have much hope for Escalera to be sending us supplies anytime soon; anything that will be produced or donated to us is no doubt being snatched by the army and used as rations for their soldiers."</p><p>"How much do you think makes it <em>past</em> the army?" Charles questions. </p><p>"Hm... enough to feed a small town of assholes like this-" one of the men in the fight are thrown harshly against the wall of the next building. "-if they aren't busy stealing from one another. Some of the rebels that used to fight for their people now fight the Del Lobos to get food through, but it's been a losing battle. Anything that gets over the border usually ends up in bandit hands, or gets rerouted to the men fracking in Plainview. I doubt there's any wagons of food 'bout thirty miles from here, let alone fifty."</p><p>Mansfield sets his glasses back on his nose as one of the men falls flat on his ass and doesn't get up. The winner lifts his arms and bellows before stumbling back indoors for another drink. </p><p>"You know, if you two could figure out where all of these shipments are going, I... well... I don't have any money. You can tell. I'd be indebted but what's a promise compared to some cash?"</p><p>"It's enough." Arthur answers. "We might be able to help you, but I ain't been out hunting like this in a while."</p><p>The doctor takes one look at him and snorts. "No, you don't look like you have. Doesn't look like you've had a proper meal in a while, either. I would be ever grateful for your aid if you two could do such a task for me. We're missing months worth of shipment, which means crates of cans and sacks of grain and flour- sugar, too. I doubt fruit would have lasted so long wherever it's being kept, but some might be salvaged for the work horses. Those beasts are about as skinny as you. Excuse me, gentlemen. And thank you."</p><p>Mansfield crosses the muddy road to scoop up his next patient and Arthur moves to the side, Charles joining him by the dusty window of the doctor's office. </p><p>"Are you sure you want to be putting your body to the test so quickly?" his friend asks softly. "I know that your illness isn't as it was, but I can't help but worry."</p><p>Arthur smiles softly at him, adjusting that grey coat around his shoulders. "I appreciate it, Charles. I'm not sure yet, but it looks like these people really need our help. It ain't like we're up to much more, are we?"</p><p>His friend chuckles and shakes his head. "Unless you count feeling sorry for ourselves and the people around us." Arthur shares his laughter. "How do you want to do this? Hunt for the lost shipments, I mean."</p><p>"I say we start with the routes of the wagons. Doesn't seem like anything would be comin' from the east recently, so we'll go due south. Check the trails and the roads and look for the signs of possible bushwacks. Messes of horse hooves, bullet casings, bodies... hopefully survivors."</p><p>Charles nods, watching as the doctor leads his new patient indoors. </p><p>"Let me get our horses."</p><p>Due south of this sad little town is an old and worn trail. The dirt here is lightened from the amount of movement over it, snaking from the ass end of the buildings towards the San Luis River, and eventually, Escalera. Arthur hadn't been to Mexico in years, hadn't really paid much attention to the turmoil brewing there until Javier was in their gang and Jack was a teething baby. There'd been long nights between Arthur and Javier where they shared cigarettes and talked about their pasts, the evenings when Javier would talk about what he'd seen and experienced, what he'd lost and gained. Lots of family gone, and friends. Cousins, aunts, uncles. Kids were taken by the army to be recruited and soon families were ripped apart not only by the bullets and violence, but by the promises the military made. </p><p>Some people lost their ways. Others found theirs. </p><p>It wasn't the same, but Arthur supposed the fall of the gang did similar for him and the rest of their found family.</p><p>After miles of riding, they see smoke behind the bend of a hill. It's still a way's off, but as they break over the crest to get their binoculars and peer, Arthur finds with a heavy heart blood and bodies surrounding an overturned wagon. There was squashed fruit and broken crates, dead horses still tied to the shattered wagon. The people that had been escorting the wagon are now lying face down in the dirt with their pockets empty and their hands curled like they were still gripping their weapons.</p><p>Arthur is the first to dismount and approach the mess, moving on careful feet as not to disrupt the dead or bother the ghosts that still remained. He checks the wagon for any insignia's or signs, pushes pieces of a broken crate together to find a title on the back. Charles is a few feet away with his hand on his gun when they discover a trail of blood leading away. </p><p>"It goes to the smoke." Arthur says. </p><p>Charles hums. "Looks like the work of nasty bandits. Del Lobos are mean, don't get me wrong, but this don't seem the same. Let's see if we can't get some higher ground to get a look at the camp, make sure we aren't running up on our own ambush."</p><p>Arthur nods and lets his friend guide the way. There aren't many more rocky hills out here, and the camp was situated in a way that it could be on guard from any angle. Slightly elevated with a sheer rock face to it's eastern side, an armed man at the edge with a rifle hooked over his arm and a cigarette dangling between his lips. A quick surveillance of the camp shows a few men cooking around a campfire, a couple more breaking open bottles of beer, and a group teasing their prisoners. Arthur can see the big heap of food they'd stolen past the hostages, prime boxes of fruit, sacks of grain, cages with chickens inside. There's even a goddamn pig, fat and stuffed and eating the scraps the bandits don't want. </p><p>It'd be a hard job taking them all down from a distance with a gun like his. Might've been a time when he'd been able to let his body and mind focus until the world went yellow and the adrenaline pumped only to kill. Mark their skulls with their eyes and take them down faster than any rolling block rifle could've done. </p><p>What he <em>wants</em> to do is keep the hostages alive. </p><p>"Them hostages," Arthur slides in closer beside Charles as they watch from the backs of their horses. "They look like they can fight."</p><p>A few were scarred from old battles, but they all had fire in their eyes. The same kind of fire Dutch had always been drawn to, the flame of rage that he'd shifted for his own use and used against his people because he wanted to build his throne. </p><p>Arthur wasn't going to hurt these people like that. He was gonna free them and get them to that shitty little town several miles north.</p><p>"What do you want to do?" Charles asks him. He wants to turn that question around and let Charles take the lead but there's something in him that feels relieved at being asked. It's like he's still got the brawn of a fighter and the reflexes of a gunslinger.</p><p>"I ain't sure. Keep the hostages alive, of course, but I haven't had the chance to see how good I am with a gun no more. I might end up shooting my toes, or worst off, you."</p><p>Smith shakes his head and lowers his binoculars. "I've seen you fight in worse conditions, Arthur. I could run a distraction, or we could wait until nightfall and sneak up on them together. Or, we go in shooting."</p><p>Arthur thinks on it, thinks of the pros and cons, of the good and the bad before he's shifting in his saddle and pointing at the ridge. </p><p>"He ain't payin' much attention, so we could move up on the camp from the west. Get to the hostages if we're lucky and cut them free. We ain't got no extra guns to give 'em, but they might know their ways around a blade and a few throwin' knives."</p><p>Charles nods, hint of a smile on his face. "That could work. You're sure you can be quiet?"</p><p>Arthur chuckles gently, slipping his binoculars back into his saddlebag. "I don't know. Worst comes, I know I have you guardin' my back. But I ain't completely confident in my ways."</p><p>His friend reaches over and touches Arthur's shoulder gently, squeezing in that kind way of his. "I trust you, Arthur. Do you want to go now or wait until evening?"</p><p>He thinks of the gloating men in the camp and swallows. "Let's do it now."</p><p>The two of them take the route far west of the camp and keep it as a small image in the distance as to not arouse suspicion. Arthur was sure any visitors this far out were considered suspicious, let alone two strangers with no obvious affiliation. It's on the far west side of the encampment where they leave their horses and take their guns, Charles manning the lead towards the camp. There's an agreement to try and do this quietly- killing less might make Arthur feel better, but as they approach they start to find more remnants of the crimes the bandits committed. </p><p>It was a case of frontier justice out here, and there was plenty of anger still in Arthur to spur him on. </p><p>He fixes Hosea's hat on his head as he shifts the weight of the knife in his other hand, looking past the canvas tents and the hitched horses to the north, seeing that Strange Man from before merely looking on. There are other figures, too. They're transparent with no real form and Arthur can't quite tell who's watching them from beyond. </p><p>Only that they're watching in silence.</p><p>They make a small distraction for the men bothering the hostages and it leads them far enough from camp for the two of them to work quietly. Knock one out, grab the next by the throat. Arthur doesn't have the same strength as before and he forgets that as he tries dragging him down, so instead he kicks the back of the man's knee and slams him into the desert floor. The bandit's head connects with a rock and he lolls to the side as Charles finishes with the other two, the friends checking on each other before moving forward. </p><p>The hostages on the ground shift away with uncertainty and Arthur lifts his hands to calm them, mutters kind words and promises that he isn't here to hurt them. He takes one of his throwing knives from his belt and uses it to saw through the binds of one captive's wrists, then passes it over as a way of keeping his promise. Charles does the same, and soon the captives are helping each other free. </p><p>But their silent work doesn't last for long. Soon the hostages have their own guns and it becomes a shootout in this desert camp. Arthur feels that adrenaline kick in and he takes a deep breath, lets the yellow form in his eyes and cover the the ground and sky. His ears ring while time slows and he fires off his bullets, watching the streaks glide through the air. Charles is mid-jump to tackle someone as Arthur empties the chamber, and one of the younger hostages is bringing their arm back to stab a bandit. They move slowly, the muscles in Charles neck quivering before time snaps back and Arthur falls to his knees. Luckily, every man he aimed at falls too, gunfire ceasing almost immediately. </p><p>Charles wrangles the bandit to the ground and knocks them out, Arthur can see that much from where he lays in the dirt. His head is throbbing and he shifts in discomfort, feeling like he spilled his brain as hands touch his shoulders and back. </p><p>"¿Está muerto?" he hears the hostages repeating as Charles runs from the unconscious man and slides to Arthur's side, touching his cheek softly. </p><p>" 'm okay," he grumbles as Charles drags him into his lap, cradling him gently. " 'm okay, promise..."</p><p>"You're sure?" his friend asks. </p><p>Arthur nods, touching his head. "Feels like I got hit over the fuckin' head s'all... help me up, lets get back to that town."</p><p>Charles helps the smaller man sit up and rubs his palm between Arthur's shoulders, glancing up at the hostages that stand around in suspense.</p><p>"¿Cómo estás?" he asks them. </p><p>There's some uncertain murmuring before the young kid with the knife points to one of the bodies on the ground. </p><p>"They killed our friend." he says, accent rolling off of his tongue. "All that time spent keeping the supplies from the army, and we get captured by some bastards in this desert..."</p><p>"We'll find a way to move the bodies." Charles promises, still pressing that warm hand between Arthur's shoulders. "If any of you are injured, speak up. There's a doctor in town that might be able to treat you."</p><p>"¿Médico Mansfield?"</p><p>"Yeah. You know him?"</p><p>"He had worked around Punta Orgullo for a while before needing to come back to America. Left with word that some town needed food. We would be happy to go with you two, seeing that you saved our lives."</p><p>Arthur stands carefully and offers his hand, Charles shifting beside him. </p><p>"What's your name?" he asks gruffly as the teen takes his hand. </p><p>"Alejandro Serna. I come from a long line of rebels!" Arthur's lip curls into a smile as Serna, no older than sixteen, stoops to pick up a gun. "I owe you both my life."</p><p>"No need for all that." Charles tells him. "Help us get this shipment of food to town, and that will be enough."</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Righteous Run - III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alejandro leads the convoy back to town as Arthur eases himself on the back of Taima. He's lent the Del Lobo horse to Sena for the time being, given his head was still throbbing and the world was still teetering. Using that power of his had left him in a bad state of mind, unable to keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes. He didn't fall asleep, just began leaning his head against Charles' shoulder as they rode.</p><p>Doctor Mansfield sweeps into the main thoroughfare of town like he's been summoned by great powers, hopping excitedly around the crates of food and stooping to look into the cages withholding chickens. Then, he's moving to take care of the injured and townsfolk are joining to get wounded off of the backs of the horses. Charles watches as a great number of civilians seem to materialize out of the cold air, surrounding the convoy to help and to nurture.</p><p>Someone helps Arthur off the back of Taima and Charles reaches for him, wrapping his arms around him and guiding him into his chest. The smaller man is wobbly and tipsy at best, clinging to the front of Charles shirt to keep from falling over. Smith takes a glance at the convoy, watches as people organize themselves and start collecting the crates off the back of the wagon, and Alejandro signals for him to get Arthur inside.</p><p>Arthur's legs give out in the threshold of the hotel, so Charles lodges his other arm beneath his knees and carries the man up the stairs to their shared room. The owner, a worrying old woman, gets the door for him and promises she'll be back soon with water from the pump, Charles hearing her hurried steps rushing away. He looks at the corner of the hallway he can see as Arthur get's laid out on the bed, arms relaxed and loose as if he's almost asleep.</p><p>"You alright?" Charles whispers. He places his palm against the other man's forehead and Arthur hums slightly.</p><p>"Got one awful headache." he murmurs. "Tobacco usually helps..."</p><p>"I have some old leaves in my saddlebag. Unless Mansfield's shipment has brought him something good. Will you be okay?"</p><p>Arthur opens his eyes and squints at him, nodding partially. "He ain't gonna take me yet."</p><p>Charles knows he's talking about the ghost in the corridor. He stands from Arthur's bedside and makes his way through the hotel, passing the older woman as she rushes back with the bucket. She takes the water to Arthur for him to drink as he steps out into the road, listening to the amount of commotion this reunion has created.</p><p>Some people here seem to recognize the hostages from Mexico, and others look to be sharing kind words for the hell of it. Life has been brought back into the people here, despite the lives lost on the trail, and Charles feels comforted by that.</p><p>He hums to Taima as he searches the saddlebags, slipping his hand in and rifling around until he finds the brass container. Within, he has the tobacco, and he takes a sniff to check it. Still dry, and it'd be easy to ground into a drink if Arthur detested the taste of it flat on his tongue. The lid is closed and Charles slips it into his pocket, watching as Alejandro lugs sacks of grain off of the back of the only wagon, the pile they'd created back at the camp growing smaller as supplies are distributed.</p><p>Arthur has a wet towel over his eyes when Charles slips back into their room. His fingers come to touch the edge of it, but the bigger man stops him from removing his eye cover.</p><p>"You look relaxed." he says softly. Then, he moves Arthur's hand and presses the brass container against his palm.</p><p>The other man's fingers curl around it and his lips shift into a smile before he murmurs <em>kinanâskomitin</em> in response. Charles settles on the foot of the bed and watches as Arthur takes a dry leaf from the container and presses it against his flat tongue, humming once it starts to take effect.</p><p>"Are they okay?" Arthur asks.</p><p>"Yes. Last I saw, they were reuniting with each other. Food is being passed out and Mansfield is treating the wounded as we speak." his friend hums gently and Charles leans back against the wall. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Arthur where he lays. "Alejandro has taken the lead on everything and is already making connections."</p><p>Arthur chuckles softly and lays the back of his hand over his rolled towel. "I don't remember him havin' stopped talking the whole way here."</p><p>Charles smiles and shakes his head, huffing out his own laugh. "Reminds me... reminds me of Sean, in a way. He's focused like Lenny."</p><p>Arthur's legs shift and one booted foot comes to rest across Charles lap. Smith uncrosses his arms and lays his palms over the leather calf of the boot, kneading at it silence and pulling it closer to his stomach. They're quiet for several minutes as Arthur chews his tobacco leaves and Charles thinks of the young members of the gang, of how Sean and Lenny would laugh and argue during reading lessons or while they drank together and got up to mischief. How when they first met, there was s spark of jackassery between them that had them bonding immediately.</p><p>Something clammy and calloused touches the back of his hand and Charles flicks his eyes from the hole he's been burning into the opposite bed, finding Arthur has shifted enough to reach down and clasp his hand over Charles'. His fingers shimmy further across the backs of his knuckles and Charles eases the leg off of his lap while Arthur moves and curls closer, fingers intertwining with his own. Smith slides across the wall and comes to collapse on the creaky bed next to his friend, foreheads hovering near each other and knees knocking together.</p><p>Charles feels Arthur hesitantly squeeze his hand and watches as his friend shuts his blue eyes, his free hand brushing over their intertwined fingers as he eases himself into the comfort of the bed.</p><p>Charles feels serene.</p><p>=</p><p>Arthur is sleeping soundly beside him when he next wakes. Their room is dark and quiet, creaks aching their way through the old wood to signal the old owner was still up. Charles shifts slightly to check the time but instead ends up stopping to look at his friend.</p><p>The other man's dry lips were parted slightly and his brows twitch once or twice. He curls his arm closer to his chest and shifts on to his back, pointed collarbones protruding from beneath his shirt. Charles thinks that the worn hands that scratch at Arthur's chest are too skinny, too many green veins not quite protruding from the skin. The hair on the other man's hands and arms seems to have lost its color as well, but Charles would be lying if he didn't say he didn't think Arthur was well.</p><p>Tuberculosis, the beating from Micah, and months spent rotting away have left him skinny. Charles would have fed him better but he wouldn't have forgiven himself if Arthur choked in his sleep.</p><p>He touches Arthur's hand softly and the smaller man sniffles, finger twitching before he murmurs. Charles brings his ear closer to understand:</p><p>"...warm..." Arthur says.</p><p>The bigger man smiles softly and eases his way off of the bed, taking the extra blankets from the mattress and dressing it over his friend. Arthur presses his nose against the edge of the thread and seems to relax back into sleep, allowing Charles to exit the room without bothering him.</p><p>There is a lantern lit on the lower level and the old owner is lighting a candle beside the door, looking over her shoulder and smiling at him. She quickly blows out the match between her fingers and turns to Charles as he approaches.</p><p>"The boy you brought was asking for you," she pulls her torn shawl tighter around her thin shoulders. "I shooed him off because you and your friend were resting. Lord knows your friend needs it."</p><p>Charles nods his head as he slips his fingers over his braid, glancing at the doors of the hotel.</p><p>"Thank you. Did you get food from the caravan?"</p><p>"Oh, yes!" She pats his arm as she glides from the candle. "I'll make you boys a good breakfast once mornin' comes!"</p><p>Charles smiles softly and bids her farewell before following the road into the dark. There are still townsfolk mulling about, individuals smoking in the alleys or looking up at the stars. Once or twice, someone thanks him as he walks and he finds Alejandro counting boxes of ammunition in a small camp on the outskirts of the community.</p><p>"Hey!" Alejandro stands from his small table and slings a rifle over his shoulder. "Are you Arthur or Charles?"</p><p>"Charles." He answers, looking past the teen and at the ammunition. "You have enough bullets to man an army, Alejandro."</p><p>The teen grins and proudly places his hands on his hips as he sidles up alongside the bigger man.</p><p>"We got these from the bandit camp when you and the sick man were resting. I'm hoping to get them back over the border and past the army in Escalera- us <em>rebels</em> need this like a man needs water." Sena removes the rifle from his shoulder and presents its clean neck and body to Charles. "They had newly made guns, bullets, and dynamite all hidden around their camp. We watched them bury them in the dirt for future use and the moment you helped us, I knew we needed to go back. The bandits would have either sold them, or wasted them on killing innocents. With this, rebels can arm themselves!"</p><p>Charles takes the rifle from the teen and moves it closer to the fire to analyze it. It <em>was</em> new, with its brand in its base practically still burning. When he lifts his eyes past the ammunition, he realizes the crates around Alejandro are filled with rifles and repeaters. The boxes of dynamite are barely hidden beneath ratty and torn sheets.</p><p>"What are you going to use to get this over the border?" He asks.</p><p>"The wagons and the workhorses."</p><p>Charles passes the rifle back over. "The townsfolk need those. And if you get caught by the army, or vengeful bandits, you won't have the ability to bring those things back."</p><p>"You don't have much faith in me." Smith presses his lips together and feels some sense of sick humor rise in his chest. Alejandro returns to his ammunition and lays his rifle against the ground. "I'm far more capable than you give me credit for."</p><p>"And you aren't taking into consideration the strength of the Mexican army, or the bandits in this desert." Charles begins to circle the ammunition, going to pull the sheet off of the dynamite. "Is that why you got caught by them?"</p><p>Alejandro scoffs and rushes to Charles, smacking his hands over the sheet and jostling the dynamite.</p><p>"I'm not a boy! I've been raising up arms since I was ten, and killing men since before that. The army is lucky I am not there to fight them. I can take them down with one hand!"</p><p>Charles retracts his hands, but not without a stern look in the others direction.</p><p>"So you have- what? Four years of experience?"</p><p>Alejandro's brows pull tighter and he curls his fingers into the hand-painted crates.</p><p>"Ten years... I am nineteen. Not as old as you, but who is?" Alejandro turns and jabs his finger into Charles chest, moving away quickly. "I do not remember a time when my family were not fighting the army, or the government, or American cowboys."</p><p>Charles watches as Alejandro seats himself back beside the fire.</p><p>"Do you have family?" He asks the young man.</p><p>Alejandro shakes his head, grabbing his rifle. "Only the people that took me in after my family was killed. No relatives by blood."</p><p>"Sometimes... chosen family is all we need.</p><p>The young man glances up at Charles and lifts his chin from his smolder.</p><p>"You and Arthur come from chosen family?" The bigger man nods. "Then I hope you two do not get separated. You make quite a team."</p><p>Charles hums and looks back at the town, thinking of Arthur secured in the hotel room with a blanket over his thin frame and the thrumming of power beneath his chest.</p><p>"He was very sick for a long while. And because of his sickness, he was unable to keep the rest of the family together like he wanted. There was one man who... he was hardly a man, but he slithered his way in and ruined us. I thought Arthur was dead for a while, and while he healed and breathed, I wondered if I would lose him again. We've lost many of people we have called family but..." he looks at Alejandro and finds him staring in wonder. "If you need help with things- with this-" he nods to the ammunition. "Don't drag Arthur into it. He's still healing."</p><p>Alejandro nods with haste and sneaks a glance at the ammunition. "I won't. But, I <em>will</em> hold you to your offer for aid."</p><p>Charles nods, thinking of Jack for no reason other than childhoods of rough living and moving.</p><p>=</p><p>Arthur scoops roasted vegetables into his mouth as Charles cleans his shotgun, using the same dirtied rag he'd owned since before joining the gang. He glances up from the rifle of the gun and watches as Arthur wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, moving with haste to scoop up another fork full of chicken that had recently been slaughtered and cooked. Arthur presses it against his tongue and chews, glancing up at Charles and catching him staring. </p><p>He holds up his plate to the bigger man, but Smith shakes his head, gestures for him to keep eating. Arthur needed to put weight back on, and he was making good headway with his appetite. He was still a skinny thing, made of bone and redemption, and it pleased Charles to see him eating. Eventually, he might be back to the weight he was before tuberculosis, or the rushed race from Blackwater that left most of them hungry and cold. </p><p>"Alejandro wants to take a group of people over the border to deliver ammunition to the rebels." Charles explains. "I told him I'd join him when the time came."</p><p>Arthur slows his chewing and lowers his fork to his plate. "He wants to go back through the desert, through bandits and army, with all that?"</p><p>The bigger man nods and sets his shotgun down gently. </p><p>"I could help."</p><p>"No. You're going to stay behind here with some of the rifles Alejandro will give up, and you'll do your job keeping these people safe. I'll join him over the border."</p><p>"You'd be putting your life on the line. And how I see it, he owes<em> us</em> instead of us owing <em>him</em>."</p><p>Charles nods, laying his arms over the table. "I know. But, he's young, and he needs some guidance before he gets himself killed. He's too headstrong to listen to us, so it'd be better if I did what I could to keep him from dying."</p><p>Arthur looks into his food with concentrated eyes. </p><p>"He ain't our responsibility, Charles."</p><p>The bigger man nods, scratching his jaw. </p><p>"I know. But... they need help in Mexico and I've exhausted myself taking advantage of people. I'd let you go with us if you were healthier, but I ain't confident enough yet. Not to say you aren't strong, or capable. I just-I just spent too long waiting and hoping to lose you already."</p><p>Arthur looks up at him with big eyes and Charles glances away to watch the floor. His friend- his eyes are too soft and blue and he's too sweet to look at. Charles knew damn well that Arthur was a killer, he'd watched him shoot, slaughter, and even torture a few people in the past. But there was still that goodness in him and the sweetness of a man who was pulled into a harsh life. If given the opportunity, Arthur could have lived those first thirty-six years of his life with the kindness he had offered so much. </p><p>The world had other plans for him. The cultivation of Lyle Morgan's spite and Dutch van der Linde's grooming had made Arthur into the butcher he was so well-known for. Charles knew that there were people he had helped; he had been privy to it once or twice. Watching him with the photographer in the swamps merely by accident on a day of hunting. He'd watched Arthur's kindness first hand on other days, but it was his friend's need to prove himself in front of other men that lent him that anger and brash stupidity. </p><p>"Well I don't-" Arthur's cheeks go pink and he starts poking at the few bits of vegetables on the edge of his plate. "-I wouldn't want to lose you either. You gave me a chance at life again, and I-I'm-"</p><p>Arthur sighs and sets his food aside, lowering his head and causing his dirty blond hair to fall around his gaunt face. Charles reaches across and gingerly takes his friend's hand, watches as Arthur glances at his knuckles, then looks up through his thick eyebrows and his fallen hair to meet Charles' eyes. </p><p>"You know I'm more careful than you'd ever be," Charles tells him softly. Arthur smiles, then nods his head. "I'll follow him as far as the San Luis river, but I won't cross. I'll head back as soon as I can from that point. As long as Alejandro gets across the water and into Mexico, then my job would be done. He understands the responsibility I have here, and I'd be keeping my promise of helping him."</p><p>His friend nods again and meets Charles' eyes.</p><p>"I trust you."</p><p>=</p><p>Charles climbs into Taima's saddle a few days later and eases himself on her back. Wagons have been collected and people have taken up arms to get the guns across the border. In exchange for the food Alejandro's group delivered, as well as the few crates of rifles he had offered, they were to get them as far as the shore of San Luis. Many of the American's couldn't risk their lives in Mexico, not wanting to endanger their lives in the eyes of the army. </p><p>Already, scouts had gone ahead and reported soldiers scouring the shores for rebels, floating down San Luis in weak boats and threatening anyone in a wagon that got too close. Though deliveries couldn't make their way across New Austin's desert from Armadillo or Tumbleweed, word still found its way past the rocks and the sand. Travelers, hunters, wanderers all reported the same thing; American and Mexican soldiers searching the sands and the canyons for rebels and criminals, the Americans close to making deals with the neighboring army if it meant they had money coming their way. </p><p>Arthur stands by Charles legs with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes watching as the convoy collects itself and readies to leave. Alejandro can be heard giving orders and making people laugh, soon climbing into the drivers box of the lead wagon with his bandana around his throat and his gun in his hand.</p><p>"¡Adiós por ahora, Arthur!" Alejandro calls as he snaps the reigns. "Perhaps we will see each other one day in the future!"</p><p>Arthur gives his salute towards Sena and the wagon train starts to leave, armed riders taking up the sides and the back as the dust cloud follows them through town. Charles doesn't move to leave yet, just watches and waits until he can find a good spot to slip into. Alejandro would be waiting for him to join soon, but he wanted to make sure they had everyone and everything they needed to get through the desert and to the San Luis. </p><p>"Don't push yourself too hard while I'm gone." Charles says as he watches the boxes of ammunition rumble past. "And continue resting. If you need-"</p><p>A hand touches his knee and Charles glances down at the touch, finding Arthur looking up at him with those big blue eyes. </p><p>"I'll be alright." he says as he smiles softly. "I'll try 'n make some friends while you're gone."</p><p>Charles smiles and nods, then kicks Taima into a trot and follows the wagon train out town. With this many people, horses, and wagons with them, they would no doubt attract visitors. Alejandro had a loud and booming voice for a man of his stature and size, and an incredible amount of stories to tell them all. Though he knew their noise level would do them no favors, there was some comfort in listening to Sena talk incessantly. Of course it'd be difficult to ignore the reminders of Sean in the young man, with Alejandro's talk of his parents when he was young, of the rebel leaders that took him in as a child after his family was killed and the friends he called his family. </p><p>All of this ammunition would be going directly into the hands of Alejandro's family, to people who were fighting for their homes, their freedoms, for their relatives and friends. That was, if they didn't attract bandits first.</p><p>Of course they come. Like scavengers from the sky a group of ragtag assholes with trigger-happy fingers fire on them and injure a few members of the convoy. It's nothing they can't handle, but the bandits out here fight like the Murfree's had. Movement, no thinking. There was no polish to their shooting or their descent with their knives and blades. Most of their weapons are rusted, dirtied guns and orange-tinted machete's lying in pools of blood once the members of the convoy have shot them all.</p><p>He sees distant riders at times, people who watch from the tops of the hills and vanish moments later. People who know these lands better than any of them could ever hope, just as the Wapiti knew New Hanover like the backs of their hands.</p><p>Those individuals never linger too close, they only watch and study and get the hairs on Alejandro's neck to stand up. Sena starts muttering to Charles about needing to run the strangers off, but Smith waves the idea away, tells him that if the riders wanted their ammunition, the convoy would be dead.</p><p>They make camp one night and the bandits come again. This time, they're gathered in higher numbers and move in attempts to slaughter them all. Fast bullets and sharp eyes are what keep Charles from dying that night, especially as the bandits slither their way deeper into their camp and attempt to kill the work horses to keep the wagons from moving out. </p><p>Most of them get away with few injuries, just a whole load of corpses of bandits littered around them. A small section of people are organized to move the bodies away, but the puddles of blood still linger. Charles stays on watch for the rest of the night and doesn't let the shadows of bandits get any closer, just cocks his gun and watches the dark. </p><p>Morning has them up bright and early. Alejandro shuffles around tiredly until he gets himself a cup of watery coffee, downs his cup and takes another before the convoy is organized and the people are moving again. For the rest of the trip, its quiet and they're left unbothered. Bandits don't seem to want to mess with them anymore, deciding that it was a lost cause. San Luis waits for them with a little wooden dock and several Mexican rebels on boats. These boats can only take a few crates at a time, but there are wagons and riders waiting on the other side. </p><p>This section of the shore is secluded from the rest of the San Luis river; there are rocks protecting either side of the entrance to Mexico and a whole lot of rebel riders waiting and watching for the Mexican army. Charles can't see soldiers from where he is, but he doesn't let his guard down. To do so would be an invitation to be killed, or captured and tortured. </p><p>"¿Y qué hay de Sánchez?" Alejandro asks another rebel as the boat arrives back at the dock. "¿Todavía no lo han matado?"</p><p>"Ten un poco de paciencia." The other man says, then sneaks a glance at Charles over Sena's shoulder. "Un hombre peculiar..."</p><p>"Un nuevo amigo," Alejandro waves for Charles to come over. "Meet my good friend, Abraham."</p><p>Charles offers his hand and Abraham's gloved one clasps it. </p><p>"Nice to meet you," the newcomer says. "You look strong and capable, sir. If you are able to, we could do with extra guns to help our cause."</p><p>Smith shakes his head. "I have business in America to deal with. This is just a side job."</p><p>Abraham lifts his brows as he picks up a crate, pushing it into Alejandro's chest. "I hope you are not expecting pay."</p><p>"No. I wanted to see Alejandro to the river and make sure your ammunition and guns arrived to you alright. That was all."</p><p>"How valiant of you." Sena turns and takes the crate to the boat. "I am grateful you helped the group. Without these bullets, and guns, and dynamite, I am afraid we would have been a lost cause. It will be used well, thanks to you."</p><p>Charles hums. "I'm sure Alejandro and the others surviving eased the fear in your heart, too."</p><p>Abraham smiles and lays his gloved hand over the bigger man's shoulder. "Of course!<em> Armas y guerreros</em>- we need them both. One to compliment the other. My offer to fight- it will still stand. Americans like to put their noses in places that they do not belong, but we have had some come and take up arms with us. They feel strongly for us at times, and those that do not run off out of fear tend to be of good use."</p><p>"Thank you. But, I'm hopin' my days of fighting are soon over."</p><p>The other man nods slowly, then looks at the people starting to gather on the boat with the crates. "It must be nice to see that on your horizon."</p><p>Alejandro jumps on the boat with Abraham and undoes the knot of rope tethering them to the dock. Charles watches from the edge with the rest of the Americans as they start pulling themselves across the water, Sena waving to him with a large smile. </p><p>"<em>Ten cuidado</em>." Charles mutters. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>man i got no idea where this is going and idk what its about or how to write thanks for being here i luv u</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Love, the Only Concept</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Beyond the desert roads of New Austin sat a little town on the brink of extinction. It had food, people, and alcohol. Three things outlaws like them needed to survive on. But most of all, it had guns. A great deal of guns that Alejandro had passed over to them as way of thanks for saving him and his friends. Those guns served useful in the days that coyotes and cougars wandered too close, and when bandits tried raiding riders on their way towards Tumbleweed.</p><p>Still, Arthur and Charles had not made the trek towards California. They knew they could- their horses were healthy, their saddlebags full, guns well stocked and loaded. But something kept them here, in the heart of the desert within a rotting town. </p><p>Arthur supposed it was some kind of intervention. A place so gutted even <em>he</em> couldn't rob it of anything more. So he worked on helping them. Getting the delivery wagon for Mansfield had been a good step in the right direction, but there was still more that the people of this town needed. Mostly water, and safe roads. Starting your day with home made liquor and getting drunk was no way to make progress, but still the townsfolk stumbled around drunk and angry. </p><p>Mansfield wasn't rich, but his office was usually busy. Stabbings, slashings, bullet holes and other various injuries. He stayed in the room above his practice, Arthur having found over tea that most of the doctor's second floor windows were boarded up. He's staring at the sharp glass remaining from it being broken when Charles arrives back from a hunt empty-handed. Arthur had tried the day before, then gave up after the desert gave him nothing more than a few crows and some iguana that had been dying anyways. The river was too far to travel to safely, so it wasn't an option to go fishing. </p><p>Charles looks stiff and tired as he slips his bow from his shoulder. He scrubs his hand down his face as Arthur follows the road to the other man, greets him quietly and helps remove the saddlebags from Taima's back. They slip into that quiet hotel, occupied by the two of them, the owner, and some trappers come from Mexico. Those trappers and playing cards quietly in the lobby when they pass, and there's some greetings before Arthur is following his friend into their room and watching as Charles sits down heavily on his bed. </p><p>He hooks the saddlebags over the foot of the bedframe and continues to stare as Charles rolls up his sleeves, undoing the first button of his shirt. </p><p>"This weather," he says, scratching at the stubble on his cheek. "It's supposed to be winter."</p><p>Arthur grins and sets his hands on his hips, proud to feel a bit of his mass having grown back over the past few weeks. </p><p>"Welcome to the desert, <em>amigo</em>," he says. "Summer will make ya feel like you're on the fuckin' sun."</p><p>Charles chuckles but his shoulders drop. He starts to stoop and Arthur can see the exhaustion pulling at him, dragging at him. He steps forth and lays his hand over Charles' shoulder, kneads into the crook of the other man's neck that makes him sigh softly and curl his fingers into Arthur's pant leg. It's quiet in that room spare for Charles' breathing and occasional grunt-not to mention the pounding of Arthur's heart in his ears. </p><p>"Let me get you water to shave with," he says. "Shave before you fall asleep."</p><p>Smith only nods. </p><p>Arthur retracts himself and heads for one of the water pumps in town. It takes a few minutes for it to run, but soon there's a good amount filling the bucket. He lugs that back indoors and up the stairs, then finds Charles finishing removing his shirt. It's laid over the foot of his friend's bed as Arthur brings the bucket deeper into the room, laying it on the crates used as a nightstand. Charles picks up his blade to shave with, stares heavily at himself in the mirror and looks like he'd fall asleep at any second.</p><p>"You want..." Arthur begins, but he's not sure what he's offering. Charles looks at him tiredly, then turns the blade around between his fingers so that the handle is facing the smaller man. Morgan takes it, weighs it in his palm before settling himself on his knees beside his friend. As Charles applies the shaving foam, Arthur slips on to his rear and knocks knees with the other man, tucking his own long hair behind his out-turned ear. </p><p>The bigger man shuts his eyes and turns his face to Arthur. His skin is hot to touch as Arthur tilts the other man's face back, deciding to start on his throat. The sound of a sharp blade cutting through Charles' thick facial hair fills the room and Arthur uses his fingers to coat a bit more of the other man's skin with the foam. He continues, going over the man's adam's apple, moving gingerly over his skin and his pulse points. Charles keeps his head tilted back and his eyes shut, says nothing when Arthur's thumb lingers beneath the angle of his jaw or when his fingers stay a little too long curled around the side of his neck. </p><p>Arthur moves to the other man's cheek. He tilts his friend's face down and looks over his closed eyes, sees peace and exhaustion within him before focusing on his job. The blade lifts, then is pressed gently against the skin. He cuts away foam and hair, then runs the pad of his thumb over the other man's bare face, deciding he'd make a good barber in another life. He removes the hair from under the other man's jaw, then gets his cheek and chin, tells Charles to make certain faces so he can remove the hair from his upper lip and they share soft laughter at the expressions he makes. Soon, all Arthur has left is that final bit of hair on the side of the other man's face, one final swipe and it'd be over.</p><p>He doesn't want it to be. </p><p>Charles opens his eyes when Arthur uses his thumb to turn his face away. He watches the smaller man in the corner of his gaze, grows still when Arthur slides the blade over that final streak of black hair. He turns his face back as Morgan lowers the razor, doesn't watch the fall of the blade, but instead the features of Arthur's face. He's studying him, watching and understanding while Arthur takes the bottle of aftershave and pours a small amount into his palms. He rubs his hands together to warm it and cups Charles' cheeks, sliding his fingers down the man's face and to his chin. Then, he moves his touch to the newly shaved throat, coats it carefully and gently before gathering the remaining bits of aftershave to the tips of his thumbs. He watches Charles pull his top lip into his mouth so he can lay the aftershave against the newly shaved skin. His thumbs meet in the middle and slide away slowly, Arthur's eyes on the other man's lips and Charles' eyes centered on his forehead.</p><p>Arthur removes his hands and wipes his palms across the thighs of his jeans, glancing up at his friend to find him admiring the handiwork in the mirror.</p><p>"Feels nice." Charles says.</p><p>Arthur smiles shyly.</p><p>=</p><p>Arthur's breakfast consists of buttered cornbread and the thigh of a chicken. It's cold since he woke up too late, but it still tastes nice. The butter doesn't melt but remains as a thick square on his slice of cornbread, but he's grateful anyways. It still melts nicely in his mouth and he makes a mess of crumbs in his lap as he watches Mansfield depart from a woman's side.</p><p>Most people here were peculiar. A lot of scarred individuals, twitchy like deer. Most of the sleazy ones had left town the day after Alejandro's convoy arrived, and the bandits had started hitting less. But he was concerned that the rats in this town had gone off to join a merry gang in the desert and that the bandit's number was growing. </p><p>It would explain the lack of wildlife in the desert, especially since Arthur had left for a night to hunt and Charles had been gone two days to find something. Bandits killing for fun and for game would wipe out the local population, not to mention how many they might be feeding out there. Arthur hadn't had the chance to explore this place like he had West Elizabeth, New Hanover, or Lemoyne. He didn't have a journal to write down or draw his experiences in, either. </p><p>That woman that had been talking to Mansfield leaves the doorstep of his office with a scoff and spots him watching. She moves to him with a start and Arthur scoops the rest of his cornbread into his mouth, brushing the crumbs from his lap and his shirt as she arrives at his side.</p><p>"Don't act dumb," she says. "I saw you watchin'."</p><p>He coughs and clears his throat, feels the ease of breath in his lungs and stands from the step of the hotel. She's a head shorter than him, dressed in dusty clothes from her travels across New Austin, but her accent is from elsewhere. Southern, it sounded. He might have assumed she was from Lemoyne. </p><p>"Wasn't tryin' to." he answers quietly as the lady sets her hands on her hips and sizes him up. </p><p>"You're tall. Got good guns, too. Maybe you'd be good to work with."</p><p>"I weren't lookin' for work, ma'am,"</p><p>"Nonsense. Everyone here is lookin' for work." she scratches her chin, lowering her eyes to his gunbelt. "I ain't sure what you used to do, and I haven't spotted you in any fights 'round here. You a cattle man?"</p><p>"I ain't much of anythin'." he answers truthfully. "I'm uh... I'm still tryin' to find my way."</p><p>She hums, then turns her hand to him. "Presley Augustin."</p><p>"Arthur,"</p><p>"Well, <em>Arthur</em>, you chose a real interesting place to find your way. This place is shit." he chuckles as they shake hands. </p><p>"I was tryin' to get to California through the hills."</p><p>"A skinny thing like you?" Augustin laughs and returns her hand to her hip. "The buzzards would have you for breakfast, if the bandits didn't get you first!" Arthur's brows furrow and she finds further amusement in his expression. "Relax, cowboy. I saw you and your friend comin' in with those rebels a few weeks back. We all heard stories of your bravery. Shot down five men in thirty seconds, you did."</p><p>He shrugs. "Tall tales-"</p><p>"Right. I seen how you look at the bad folk here- studying and analyzing. The old look of a man who used to be on the run, or at least had to fight a whole lot to keep livin'."</p><p>"<em>Used to</em> is the point." he grumbles. Arthur turns back to the road and Presley joins him as he leans against the pillar of the hotel porch. </p><p>"I know. That's why I said 'old'. You seem okay- that's why I approached you. You seemed half-dead the first time I saw you."</p><p>Arthur scoffs. "You're really makin' me want to run out with you, Miss Augustin."</p><p>"Bandits in the hills have been digging out rocks from the old mines in search of silver. They have a boss who goes by <em>Gran Asesino</em>... no one knows his real name, but they do know he's got a good amount of money on his head."</p><p>Arthur glances at her. "Money, which you want."</p><p>"If I had the patience to take him to Mexico. But, no. I'd rest better knowing that they weren't poisoning the only safe water supply for miles, though. If I killed Gran Asesino, then his bandits wouldn't have direction, and soon they'd dwindle to nothing. Strike the heart, and the beast falls." Presley leans against the opposite pillar and crosses her arms over her chest.  "But first, I need to survey their camp and understand its inner workings. That's where you'd come in. Won't get your hands dirty, you'd just be bundled up in a nice soft blanket on a cliff somewhere, watching cutthroat's mine and get drunk."</p><p>"You make it sound easy."</p><p>"As long as we're quiet, it should be. They're a plague on this land, Arthur. It's best to get rid of the vermin before they kill us all."</p><p>=</p><p>Arthur hadn't done anything like this in months. </p><p>His final jobs in the gang were following aimlessly, doing things to keep others from dying and running. The last time he'd done something similar, he had been hunting a deer near the viking tomb in Roanoke, sitting on his haunches and waiting in the silence of that forest until it appeared. He'd set his arrow, then pulled it back to fire, but hadn't. It lifted his head and looked at him like it was waiting for the arrow to come, dark eyes watching Arthur as if it knew he held its life in his hands. </p><p>Arthur had lowered the bow and slipped the arrow from the string, grasping it in his palm. </p><p>Now, he lays on his belly in New Austin's winter sun and watches a camp of bandits wander around for work. Most of them wear clothing from strangers they've killed; Arthur can see the mass grave in the distance. Buzzards like to try and dive for their food, to fight coyotes and crows for the final bits, but the bandits take more shots and laugh as they add corpses to the pile. </p><p>There's a creek here that flows from the north. It's water is mostly clear and runs aimlessly into different diversions the bandits have created out of wood and rocks. It leads into their own water ways and avoids the main, wide berth in the dirt that looked to have been a wider creek many years ago. Arthur can still see the wear of water on the old, dusty rocks as Presley comes to rest beside him with her binoculars. </p><p>"They built a dam," she says quietly and points north. "Big river that comes down from Utah, I think. Rocks, wood, you name it, it's blocking the water from coming all the way down. The water that does make it out are these streams you see here, and the poisoned pond that animals here drink from."</p><p>He nods and looks back at the camp. "Well, what do you want to do?"</p><p>"I'm not sure... if we busted the dam, the town would have a quick source of clean water. But it'd only be a matter of time before that started to be poisoned too. We'd need to stop the bandits and Gran Asesino either before or after we rid of the dam."</p><p>"There's too many." he points at the group in the middle of target practice. "We go down there anytime soon and they'll kill us."</p><p>"Then we cause a distraction. Something big and noticeable that pulls some of them away. The other person stays behind and finds Gran Asesino."</p><p>"No." he shakes his head and rolls on to his shoulder. "That's a death wish. You said we were only going to survey."</p><p>"I'm giving ideas!" she argues, then slips the rifle from her shoulder and presses it against his bony chest. "You ever use a rifle like this before?"</p><p>He thinks of the lighthouse in Van Horn, of the final day he saw Sadie, Abigail, Jack, and John. </p><p>"Yeah, but-"</p><p>"Get a good look at them. If you see any trouble, start shooting."</p><p>"Miss Augustin!" he whispers, reaching out to stop her as she stands and takes her repeater with her. "Miss Augustin!"</p><p>Presley leaves him on his belly above the bandit camp. </p><p>He uses the scope of the rifle to watch them, takes note of the crates of explosives and the sources of fire, tries mapping out possible exits and ways he could rid of bandits as Augustin sneaks down. She's quick and quiet, takes down one bandit that saw her and hides his body in one of the tents. Then, she's off again and vanishing into the mines.</p><p>Arthur can't do anything more than lay on his stomach and watch. </p><p>A group of assholes leave on the backs of magnificent horses, riding out to scout the desert. As the sun starts to lower in the sky, more bandits leave the camp in parties, drinking and hollering, shoving each other as they ride out. </p><p>Presley stays too long within the mines. He hears nothing, just watches as the bandits start to wind down for the night, as one or two take up watch on the outskirts of the camp. Arthur keeps his eye down the sight and his finger around the trigger, waiting to see her form leaving, or the sound of gunfire below. Even a shout would be enough for him, or a triumphant roar from whoever Gran Asesino was. </p><p>But nothing comes.</p><p>Arthur shifts from his stomach and scurries down the side of the hill and into the edges of the camp. He grabs a crate of dynamite and hikes it beneath his arm, then steals a bottle of moonshine he'd seen them getting drunk on and runs north. His body isn't what it used to be; the muscles in his legs burn and he thinks he's getting weaker by the moment. But, as he runs up this hill towards a supposed dam, lugging a crate of dynamite and a jug of moonshine, his lungs don't hurt. </p><p>Not in the way they would with tuberculosis. He doesn't feel like he's going to die, that he's going to fall unconscious from coughing. The ache is something better, something that burns in a right way and Arthur tightens his arm around the box and keeps running, feels the power in his chest thrum and spread through his limbs. </p><p>The dam is ahead of him, spitting water through its cracks that gave way to the stream he had seen. Arthur drops himself behind the dribbling wall and hides in its shadows as a few bandits meander past, too drunk or too blind to take notice of his panting form. He keeps himself pressed against the wall as he sits the crate down in the dirt, removing his knife from his sheathe. Arthur sticks it between the boards and pries it open, then pulls the wrapped bundles of dynamite out and pushes them between the cracks in the wall. He uses the tip of his knife to pry the cork out of the jug and takes a sniff, wrinkling his nose before Arthur climbs out of the creek and starts pouring a line from the dam to a series of boulders. </p><p>He splashes the rest around and sets the jug aside, searching his pockets on instinct for matches. Arthur has nothing, just a stained yellow shirt and his bullets. </p><p>Blue eyes glance at the bandits from earlier and he reaches for his gun, slips it out of the holster, and aims at the trail of moonshine in the dirt. Arthur takes a breath and fires, watching as the moonshine trail erupts in fire. His shot grabs the attention of the bandits and they turn harshly, shouting once they spot him through the flames. Arthur drops behind the boulders and avoids a shot to his chest, pressing himself against the rocks as the trail of fire licks away from him towards the dam. </p><p>He counts the seconds as the bandits start running to him, tightening his grip around his gun. Arthur lifts his head as a shadow looms over him, looking up at the upside down face of one of the bandits. He raises his barrel as the other one does, but a great wave of heat and flame throws the bandit off of the boulder. </p><p>The dam explodes and both bandits go flying over Arthur's head, landing harshly in the sand several yards away. Bits of the dam starts raining down around him and he curls further against the boulder, avoiding shards of rocks and wood. He pushes away and starts running from the dam, watching the water rush from its previous containment. He follows it as it floods down the hill, curving and crashing and rolling towards the mines, following a centuries old pathway that had gone dry. </p><p>Arthur feels droplets of water against his face and sees lightning, sliding down the hill with his gun in his hand. He slides to a stop at the bottom as thunder roars above him, watching as bandits fire towards something to the south. He takes a glance over his cover and sees Presley's form firing from the dark, turning his eyes to the east when he sees movement. </p><p>Its Charles. </p><p>And a whole load of townsfolk. </p><p>Morgan whistles and his friend looks in his direction immediately, lifting his hand in recognition before the townsfolk start descending upon the bandits in waves. Lightning flashes over them as they lift their guns and fight to take back the land around them, Charles riding down on Taima's back with his shotgun lifted. </p><p>The bandits are immensely outnumbered and their leader, Gran Asesino abandons them on his horse. Even as waves of the scouts come back to defend their camp, the townsfolk easily hold them back A party is quickly gathered to chase after Gran Asesino, all riders going south and leaving the old mines behind. </p><p>Arthur pushes himself to stand, drenched in the rain as thunder roars above him. As lightning flashes, he spots Charles crossing the water, rushing over with his face pulled in worry. </p><p>"You said you were just going to survey the camp," his friend says as he arrives.</p><p>Morgan reaches out and hooks his fingers under the hood of Charles coat, lifting it up and over the other man's head. He covers the scar on the side of his skull and the braid still tight against the back of his head. The end of it peeks out from the side and Arthur reaches in, gently pushes it out from the touch of the rain. </p><p>"And you said you were gonna stay with the Wapiti." he answers. He lifts his eyes to Charles, smiling gently. </p><p>Charles steps closer, hood over his head and hands touching Arthur's arms in search of something. </p><p>"Are you alright?" his friend mutters in the rain. </p><p>Arthur nods, feeling droplets sliding under his collar and dribble down his back. He did feel good. The running, the defending. </p><p>"Feels like I did somethin' good for good people." he says. "Feels like-like I can breathe again."</p><p>Charles wraps his arm around Arthur's middle, dragging him against his chest. In the spot where the bigger man's shoulder and neck meet, Morgan lays his head down and shuts his eyes, taking in the nicest breath of air he'd had in a long while.</p><p>=</p><p>First, the animals come back. </p><p>Instead of being haunted by buzzards and crows and dying iguana's, they are instead visited by a variety of animals. A herd of pronghorn are spotted grazing on the hill a short distance away, and that night the town hosts a banquet. The next day, mustangs kicking up dust as they run wild and free through the desert. Following that, Arthur is woken by the sound of birds and he lays in his bed as they chirp, listening to Charles' soft breathing across the room.</p><p>He goes out to hunt. </p><p>They'd been spotting wild boar the last few days and after the animals arrived, so had the people. As if Moses had parted the mountains as he had the Red Sea, the road to California grows apparent through the hills and visitors start to arrive from the west. People on the road east in search of fortune, others who find that this town needs their help, some who decide to settle in this town and make it permanent.</p><p>With them they brought food, linens, clothes, animals and most of all <em>life</em>. </p><p>Arthur passes bushes of green on his trek up the hillside, Charles' bow secured over his back as he walks. He follows the tracks of the boar and tries to keep himself quiet as he moves, watching the horizon as he sees the very distant form of campfires. Down there were homesteaders, townsfolk, Presley, and Mansfield. Most of all, Charles was down there somewhere, busying himself in the time it took for Arthur to get back. </p><p>The boar are ahead of him, flicking their tails and grazing. He lowers himself to his knee in silence and removes the bow from his back, pulling an arrow out of his leather quiver. These boar are none the wiser, ignorant of his form kneeling in the dust and lining up an arrow. Arthur aims, steadies his breathing, and pulls the string taut. Across the dirt, one of the boar's ears flick and they lift their head, the arrow slicing across their throat. </p><p>A painless death. </p><p>Morgan stands as the rest of the boar squeal away, his boots crunching over dust and grass as he approaches the carcass. It bleeds, but it doesn't cry. Many times he had failed his simple wish to seamlessly kill an animal and had to stab it as it lay whining on the ground. This feels like he had become better, he thinks as he kneels beside the animal and runs his fingers through it's black fur.</p><p>Everything feels real and new now, as if his surviving or his resurrection had given him a better insight on the world. </p><p>"I know of a few men who'd be real proud to see this," Arthur says. Silence follows his words, so he continues. "It's just a boar. But it was a livin' thing. I ain't been too kind to the livin'."</p><p>"Fortunately, you can say that you are not the same man." The Strange Man answers. </p><p>Arthur nods and looks down at the pool of blood in the dirt. It no longer gives him a pang of guilt or regret. This one, it died because others needed to eat, as was the way of the world and the cycle of life. </p><p>He chuckles as he thinks over the other's words, hooking the bow over his shoulder. </p><p>"I know of a few <em>other</em> men who wouldn't be too proud to see me now," he shifts his weight to his heels and looks over at the tall hat of the newcomer. "I guess you know all about them."</p><p>That snarl of a smile appears on the other's face and Arthur represses the feeling to shiver. </p><p>" 'And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death... and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.' Revelation 6:2-8."</p><p>"I thought it was 'His name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him'?"</p><p>The Strange Man folds his arms behind his back slowly and lifts his chin. </p><p>"Men always change quotes to fit their story, Arthur. For yours... you are no longer Hell, but a man. Nothing more, nothing less."</p><p>"A man that cheated death, though."</p><p>"No. <em>Cheating</em> is not the right word."</p><p>"What is?"</p><p>The Strange Man almost shrugs, almost amused. "You are the writer of your own story. Your first part was a magnificent one, Arthur Morgan. Perhaps you could have a kind epilogue?"</p><p>Arthur's eyebrows draw together in confusion and he looks away, at the body of the boar he had killed for food. He pulls his hand from its fur and sighs, turning back to continue speaking to The Strange Man, but the other has vanished. </p><p>
  <em>And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the <b>beasts of the earth</b>.</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Love, the Only Concept - II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>short chapter this time</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The road to California could not make itself any more apparent. It stood as a great big winding path, bringing with it people and animals from the furthest reaches of the west, individuals with wagons stocked with food and supplies. As Charles and Arthur start exploring and eradicating the bandits in this section of the desert, they find a ranch northwest of the town, a place that had been so thoroughly screwed over by Gran Asesino and the bandits that they showed immense gratefulness towards the two men. </p><p>Many times Charles goes out with the fighters from that ranch to join the hunt, some kind of trade that if they kill more bandits, more supplies would be sent to town. Days, weeks, and then months pass as he hunts and Arthur works, as they find themselves in this dusty section between their past and their future. </p><p>All he really needs is the present. </p><p>Over time, more life starts to drag itself into town, and then its name comes back,<em> Los Sueños</em>. Los Sueños is reconstructed and given the aid it needed to revitalize. Families start rolling in by spring, and by summer, it's a proper, working town. </p><p>Charles smokes in the shade of the porch as he watches Arthur lead a newly born foal from the pasture. A little roan thing with a happy spring in its step that likes Arthur more than it's own mama. It acted more like a dog when Arthur was around, jumping, playing, chasing things because it made Arthur laugh loud and big. </p><p>That was another thing that made Los Sueños feel like home. It comforted them and made them feel good, had them doing odd jobs for innocent people that simply needed help. They hadn't seen Alejandro since he took the weapons back to Mexico, but they did often hear of his growing reputation there. Los Sueños showed them that 1899 was only the past now, nothing more than a bad memory that occasionally gave them nightmares. Even Arthur's ghost sightings started to dwindle but it left Charles in an odd state of mind. </p><p>He knew his invitation from Rains Fall still stood. That Paytah was his brother and there was a tribe waiting for him in Canada. Los Sueños felt like home now, and the idea of leaving it struck him with fear and uneasiness. That must show on his face because once Arthur meets his eyes, his face is melting and his lips are parting. Charles smiles at him as best he can, glad to see the freckles and tan on his face, of his growing size over these last few months. A big man again, built out of muscle with a protruding belly and his too-loud laugh had resurfaced. He wore Hosea's hat and gun with pride, and now only looked at it with a small amount of sadness. </p><p>Now, there was only melancholy. </p><p>"You alright?" Arthur asks as he steps up on the porch. He removes that black hat from his head as Charles nods and puts his cigarette out, going to rest against the porch banister. </p><p>"I'm fine." he responds. "Just thinking."</p><p>His friend nods and wipes the sweat from his brow, easing the long blond hair away from his shoulders while he takes the wicker chair in front of the window. "Wanna talk?"</p><p>"Thinkin' about Canada again." he answers with a long breath. Arthur lays his hat between his thick thighs and Charles swallows. "Rains Fall is still waiting for me up there, and there is a life I wanted to live in Canada. The mounties won't know who we are- I'm not sure they'd really want to get into American business anyways. We'd be safe, safer than we are here. But this place is comfortable. I'd like to leave and start that life up north, truly and completely leave the United States behind, but I can't bring myself to do so. Not yet."</p><p>"Well," Arthur grins partially. "Don't stay behind on my account! There ain't nothin' here I can't handle no more. I'm about as fit as I was 'fore the TB, and though I got a few gray hairs poppin' up, it don't mean I can't take care of myself."</p><p>Charles looks away as Arthur continues.</p><p>"You was always talkin' about movin' up to Canada and findin' a wife. Starting a family with her, loving her... you-you can have that with the Wapiti now. All you gotta do is get up there."</p><p>"It's more difficult than that." he exhales through his nose, itching for another cigarette. "And I won't leave you like that."</p><p>"I weren't tryin' to force you to go or nothin'..."</p><p>"I know." Charles looks back at him, resting his hand over his thigh. "I'm well aware you can take care of yourself, of this town and its people. You're well known here in Los Sueños, and Snakeskin ranch. Even Mexico, by how the rebels tell it."</p><p>Arthur chuckles lightly, but his eyes are heavy with something Charles can't yet read.</p><p>"Sure... but it ain't just me. You're a local legend too. The cowboys at Snakeskin call you the <em>Indian Whisperer</em>."</p><p>"Because they're idiots." he answers flatly and stands. "And believe the Mescalero are only here to steal their livestock and scalp them."</p><p>Arthur's face falls and he nods darkly. "I know... that weren't it- Abraham Reyes knows you and talks about you in Mexico."</p><p>"The rebel leader," Charles scoffs and looks out at the forms of the townsfolk. "Yes, that would do us a lot of good for the Mexican Army to hear that a <em>dead</em> American outlaw is aiding in the revolution."</p><p>"Another reason for you to go up north, then. Avoiding not only the American government and military, but the Mexican one too."</p><p>Smith breathes out a laugh and looks back at Arthur. He's staring up with soft blue eyes, face dusty from work and reddened again. Charles moves forth and presses his palm softly against the other man's cheek, scrubbing his thumb across it to find that <em>yes</em>, Arthur was healthy again and this was no mirage. He didn't feel the poke of a bone from a gaunt face, didn't see the purple or yellow around his eye sockets. Arthur was Arthur, but this time as a good and healthy man that survived. </p><p>"Would you go with me?" he asks softly. </p><p>They wouldn't have the two bedroom house as they do here in Los Sueños, nor the connections either. Mexico wouldn't lie over the border, and neither would their worse fears. There wouldn't be calm winters with the occasional rainstorm, or the belief they could make semi-easy travel to visit the graves of their lost friends. </p><p>There would be the Wapiti. A new home. A different start. </p><p>"I..." Arthur blinks a few times. "I don't have nothin' in Canada."</p><p>"I would be there."</p><p>His friend smiles, face growing redder beneath that sunburn. "You'd have me?"</p><p>Charles smiles in return. "You've always been good company."</p><p>"Ah," Arthur stands, moving his hat from his thighs to his chair.  He offers his hand and Charles intertwines their fingers, the two of them moving back to the banister of the porch. "And in our life in Canada, how do we live?"</p><p>"Warmly, in a little house with a fireplace and a roof. In winter, the snow and the cold won't get us because we'll have too many blankets, and the fire will always be raging. We'd have... a few pets. Cats, or dogs, probably both knowing you." Arthur chuckles. "Our dining table would always have food on it, fruit, or baked bread, or something we learned to make from the neighbors. In summer, we'd have our windows open and plenty of shade from the trees to keep cool. A well with fresh water, a little farm with chickens and some goats. There'd be a pond filled with fish close by. You'd like fishing in it, or swimming. And I'll like watching you because you're skin will be marred but only I would know the stories."</p><p>"And our jobs," Arthur leans into him, presses his shoulder against Charles chest as he slips his hand from the bigger man's and snakes it around his waist. "I'll hunt by the season and focus on drawing in my spare time. My journals will be filled with forests and animals, and of our chickens and-and goats. And the pond with the fish," he smiles at Charles. "And you. With our dogs and our cats, bundled up in front of the fire with too many blankets 'cause it's so god damn cold."</p><p>Charles smiles, sliding his arm around the other man's back. "What's my job?"</p><p>He shrugs, lays his head against Charles' shoulder like they've done this a thousand times before. "You'll tend to the animals. Go between the reservation and our home, doin' the same as you do here. Helpin' people, but not forgettin' to help yourself. We'd go huntin' together cause Lord knows I don't know what I'm doin' with a bow." Charles chuckles. "And when we ain't goin' after animals to eat them, or use their hides and bones for things, we'd be out there just to watch and relax. Like we do at the pond in the summer, or in front of the fire in the winter."</p><p>Smith shuts his eyes and takes in a deep breath. He can smell sweat, dust, and the soap Arthur had used that morning. It melds into a perfect scent of Arthur Morgan, ex-outlaw and good man. </p><p>"You think we could make it happen?" Charles whispers.</p><p>Arthur's arm tightens around his middle. "Yeah. I think we could. House wouldn't be too big, right?"</p><p>"No... Our room, a washroom, and a place for supplies. The front part doesn't have to be massive, despite how big we are."</p><p>The smaller man pats his own belly in amusement. "I don't know, Charles. I been eatin' a whole lot."</p><p>Charles smiles and wraps Arthur up in his arms, holding him against his chest. "It means you're healthy. If you hunt well enough up in Canada, you can eat well too."</p><p>Arthur hums, raises his face and looks up at Charles with a soft, whimsical gaze.</p><p>"What's our dog's name?"</p><p>"Baby." Morgan snorts and his eyes close, body tilting back. He stays pressed against Charles' chest. </p><p>"Baby? I love Baby already!"</p><p>Charles chuckles. "What about our cat?"</p><p>"Hm... Cat." Smith rolls his eyes and Arthur tightens his grip around the bigger man. "I ain't never been good with names. You should probably name the goats and the chickens, too."</p><p>"Or we wait for Sadie to visit so she can name our animals. You know she'd give us an earful if she finds out you named our cat Cat."</p><p>Arthur softens and nods. "Sadie... We should..." He hums, fingers curling into Charles' shirt. </p><p>"What is it?"</p><p>"I don't know. The idea of her by herself, thinkin' I'm dead... She can kill, we both know that. But she's... she's almost gotten herself killed too many times."</p><p>"We'll find her. Just as we'll find John, and Abigail, and Jack. They'll all be okay."</p><p>Arthur blinks like he doesn't believe it, but then meets Charles' eyes again. </p><p>"I didn't mean to spoil the dream."</p><p>"You didn't." he leans forth, pressing their foreheads together. "They'll be part of it too. They're our family."</p><p>Arthur hums, then snorts. "Let's name all the chickens Chicken to see how she'd react."</p><p>Charles laughs with him, pulling his face back. "You'd be askin' for a lecture then."</p><p>Then, the smaller man leans forth close enough, tilting far enough that Smith knows where he's aiming. Charles leans forth too, presses their lips together, tastes the dust and the coffee on the other man's mouth and hums when Arthur presses into it. They've cuddled, and hugged, held each other countless times since the dam was blown up and Gran Asesino was ran out of town, but not once had they kissed. Charles had thought about it often, wondered how Arthur would feel or taste, if he'd recoil in fear. But he doesn't, he pulls Charles closer and makes a happy noise in the back of his throat. </p><p>They pull back a very short distance and Charles sighs softly as Arthur gathers himself. He realizes that they've both been so touch-starved, so void of proper contact that he feels like a boy. Giddy, dumb, a fool falling for a fool. And the fool in front of him smiles warmly and wets his lips with his tongue, looking up at him. </p><p>"Feels like we've done that before." he says. </p><p>That it did. Like they were meant to kiss, that it was something natural and obvious that they'd been dancing around ever since Charles joined the gang. </p><p>It feels normal. </p><p>He kisses Arthur again, hums into it and feels comforted by the arms on his back and the mouth against his. The strength and the softness of Arthur, like an invitation home almost. Morgan is everything, like a wish come true and the part of Charles' dream he'd been needing since he left home so young. </p><p>"I ain't no kind of wife," Arthur whispers as they part. Smith shakes his head, holds the other man against his chest and runs his fingers through his long blond hair. </p><p>"Don't have to be. You'd make a good husband."</p><p>Arthur presses his face against the skin of Charles neck and the bigger man shivers like he's cold, electricity going up his spine. </p><p>"I'd like that," he says. "Bein' your husband."</p><p>"Only if you'd have me, Arthur."</p><p>"I would." his hands slide up Charles' sides. "You'd make a damn good husband yourself."</p><p>Charles smiles and shuts his eyes, pressing his nose against Arthur's head to breathe him in. </p><p>=</p><p>There was word of a brash woman bounty hunter, part-time body guard following a route down the coast of San Luis towards Casa Madrugada. Apparently, she was well-known for getting in the way of traffickers looking to ship young working girls on to mean rich men like Ignacio Sanchez, an appointed general Alejandro had spoken of with venom. </p><p>The two of them are camped on the shore of San Luis near Plainview , listening to the crickets as Arthur stokes the fire. When they used their binoculars, they could see the distant forms of riders in Mexico and sometimes they could hear the fracking of the oil rigs in the fields near them. When things start to tire down, the world starts to fall into that hazy time of sleep as the horizon turns orange and purple, Charles sees a hoard of riders struggling across the San Luis water. </p><p>The rapids were too fast for a horse to survive, and it'd tire out and probably drown before it had the chance to get it's owner to the other side of the shore. It was why so many soldiers and hunters used the water as a trap for their targets, why Arthur and Charles had been camping here awaiting the infamous lady bounty hunter. Charles tilts his head some and sees them coming down river towards the two of them, shouting in Spanish and making angered gestures towards the water. Either they hadn't been expecting it to be so fierce, or they were chasing something that was managing to stay just out of their reach. </p><p>Charles pushes himself to his feet and starts to approach the shore with careful eyes, knowing that the riders were too busy trying to survive than to take notice of him. Arthur stands behind him as Smith gets closer to the water, horses and men rushing towards them. A head pops up above the surface briefly, tanned arms flailing, and Charles shouts to the other man. </p><p>"Your lasso!" he starts backpedaling and turns, running down the shore with Arthur near him. The other man readies the rope and passes Charles, grounding his feet into the sand and tossing the neck of the lasso. It slings outwards and touches the palms of the individual's hands, then they're grasping to it for safety and tugging it under the water. Arthur jerks slightly, having not expected the pull of the rapids, and slams his boot down in to the sand. Charles moves around him and grasps the rope with him, helping pull the person to shore. </p><p>Shots hit the rocks near them and both men drop themselves to the ground, shrouding themselves in the bushes as they struggle with the rope. Whoever this person was, the riders were suffering life and limb to keep them from surviving. </p><p>Charles grunts, can feel his hands burning against the grip of the rope, and knocks shoulders with Arthur to pull the person out of the water. They shift, then Arthur hoists himself on his haunches and leans backwards with his full weight. Like a dead fish, the person from the water hits the rocky shore with a slap and starts coughing, still holding on tight to the lasso they'd pulled around their middle. </p><p>"Get them," Arthur tells Charles. "I'll cover you."</p><p>Smith shuffles and runs, taking the rope and tying it around his forearm. He feels the wind of bullets pass by his head as he moves but he keeps his attention on the person gasping for air in the sand. Charles tugs again and the person hikes over the bank of the river and adjusts their legs beneath themselves, managing with what strength they had left to shimmy into the shroud of the bushes and dirt. </p><p>Charles grabs them by the middle, stains the front of his shirt with water and dust and pulls them further away from the river. But it grows quiet, leaving the sound of the rushing water and scared whinnying of startled horses for them to listen to. Bodies of the riders glide down the river with trails of blood and Charles watches them go as he holds the person he and Arthur have saved, lowering himself on to his knee.</p><p>"You're okay now," he says, undoing the rope from around the individual's middle. He starts rolling it up as Arthur jogs over. "Those men can't get you."</p><p>The person sighs and wipes away their mop of wet hair tiredly, no longer obscuring their face. As they do so, Charles' eyes part some in surprise and he stands quickly, taking his gun from it's holster and pointing the barrel at the man on the ground. </p><p>"You're kidding," Arthur grumbles. "Javier."</p><p>Javier Escuella looks at them with tired eyes and manages a very wry smile. </p><p>"Hello, brothers." he comments. </p><p>"I thought you ran off with Dutch," Arthur spits the name off of his tongue as he takes his lasso from Charles. "What'chu doin' here?"</p><p>"Running." he answers, staying still and loose on the ground. He squints up at them, sun beating down on them all. "Del Lobos don't take kindly to me out here. Said I'm... a deserter, and a snake."</p><p>Arthur only hums, slinging the lasso over his shoulder. "I'd have to say I agree with 'em."</p><p>"Things were hard, Arthur. You saw what it was like towards the end- I was confused."</p><p>Morgan turns and faces Mexico, squinting at the red rocks and the yellow sand. "This is where loyalty's gotten you- practically back to square one."</p><p>"I didn't know what was going on, Arthur." Javier rolls on to his side and both bigger men aim their guns at him with haste. He huffs, pushing his hair from his face and raising his palms. "I'm grateful you two shot those pendejos, but if you're going to just shoot me, at least do me the favor of making it quick."</p><p>"Wasn't planning on it." Charles explains. "But there's still money on your head."</p><p>"Sure. Turn me in to the law, let them drag me back to Mexico, or to the Pinkertons in Blackwater so I can be hanged for my crimes. Let's come to an easy agreement- you do neither and let me die on this river bank."</p><p>"How do we know you won't just run on back to Dutch?" Arthur asks. He steps in front of Charles, almost shoulders him out of the way. He's angry, but he isn't reflecting it in the way he would have if it was still 1899, if he was still the main muscle for the Van Der Lindes.</p><p>"Take a good look at me, Arthur," Javier gestures to the spoiled stains of his union shirt and the tears in his pants. Even his boots are peeling and coming undone. "I haven't been with Dutch since Beaver Hollow."</p><p>"You sure as fuck left with him."</p><p>Javier nods, letting his hands fall on his chest. "I did, because I didn't know where else I could go, or what else I could do. I spent a week listening to Micah's bullshit and decided to get out of there. Bill drank twice as much as he had when we had our family, Cleet and Joe started gettin' too friendly, and Dutch was..." Escuella gets this far off look in his eyes. "Dutch... I made a mistake."</p><p>"No shit."</p><p>"Listen to me, Arthur, Charles, he's even more far gone than I thought he was. Loyalty in that gang became nothing and I realized my choices afterwards. That's why I said you should at least make my death fast."</p><p>Arthur shifts is weight to his heels as Charles keeps his eyes on Javier.</p><p>He'd heard the story of what happened that final night from Arthur more than a few times. In his slurred speech when he was barely awake, when they settled on better terms after moving into Los Sueños, times when their nightmares were too strong and rigid to allow them to go back to sleep. Simple chats over breakfast. </p><p>Javier was a loyal man to the very end, and Charles hated that he had gone with Micah when he first heard Arthur's story.</p><p>"You went with Dutch," Charles says. He lowers his gun some, nudging Arthur. "He was family." Arthur glares at Smith lowly and then glances at Javier, grip tightening around the butt of his gun. "A few years ago, you'd have done the same thing." </p><p>Arthur looks at him like Charles has shot him, but soon that stare melts away into guilt and regret. He nods, slips his gun into its holster with a heavy sigh, and begrudgingly holds out his hand to Javier. Escuella stares at his palm in confusion for a long few moments before reaching out, letting Arthur tug him to his feet. He stumbles over the peeling boots and Charles steadies him, realizes Javier's shoulders are drooping and that he's got a dizzy look in his eye. He was smaller than the both of them, always had been, but he looks skinnier than last they'd seen him. He walks on unsteady legs to their small camp and they settle him on a blanket, pass him what game they had left over from their most recent hunt. </p><p>Javier chews it and eyes them in suspicion, but as he does so, Charles can see him fighting sleep. </p><p>He holsters his weapons and watches as Arthur's tense shoulders move towards the edge of the water, taking with him a net to catch fish with. Charles leaves Javier to rest on the sand and hopes that he doesn't have the energy, or the idea, of stealing their things and their horses. </p><p>Arthur readies himself to throw the net out, rolling his shoulders and his neck before dragging it past his stomach. Charles lays his fingers over the other man's arm and his friend pauses, looking over his shoulder with furrowed brows.</p><p>"Stop sulking." he breathes. Arthur lowers the net as Charles nudges him with his hip. "He's desperate."</p><p>"He betrayed us." Morgan curls his fingers into the net, staring down at his hands. </p><p>"He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. You see where he is now," Charles gestures to the water San Luis, to the places where the Del Lobos had fallen and Arthur's shoulders droop.</p><p>"I know. But it ain't the same as it was back then- hell, its been what, six, seven months? And now I'm expected to just bring him in as an old friend with open arms? I can't do that." Arthur glares over his shoulder and finds Javier throwing his arm over his eyes. "He does look sick..."</p><p>"We'll take him to Mansfield."</p><p>"And risk what we got?" </p><p>Charles sets his hands on his hips and nods at Javier. "Take a long look at him. He's skinny, hasn't been eating right. His clothes aren't what they used to be and his hair is dirty. If he's running from Del Lobos, alone, then that means Micah convinced Dutch to abandon him, or he's been running by himself for a while, just as he said he did."</p><p>"But why run back to Mexico? He's wanted there as much as he is here."</p><p>"Closest place, I guess." Charles sniffs, laying his hand over Arthur's waist. "I don't think he's a risk right now. But, if he tries anything, then we dump him. We take him with us, but with conditions."</p><p>Arthur grits his teeth. "We came to find Sadie."</p><p>"I know. But we found Javier instead. Sadie can handle herself, we both know that. But him?" Charles looks over at the other man's sleeping, skinny, dirty form. "He looks like he's been through hell and back."</p><p>"If he puts you in danger," blue eyes meet brown. "We're leavin' him. You've sacrificed too much-"</p><p>"I know." Charles slips his fingers into Arthur's gunbelt and tugs him closer. "Trust me."</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Love, the Only Concept - III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i've had no inspiration to update this but i've got some ideas now. hope ur staying safe.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Town greets them with open arms once they arrive back. Javier is moved to a room in the hotel under watch of the owner and he is quickly brought meals and clean clothes to wear. No one asks about the blood stains on his shirt, or the scar on his throat. This wasn't the kind of place where people tried getting into other's business. Mansfield approaches Javier the day after and treats what wounds he had, gives him medicine to battle the bug he's caught and gives the same concoction to Charles and Arthur to keep them from catching it themselves. </p><p>Arthur spends a lot of time riding, hunting, or joining the ranchhands at Snakeskin to keep from seeing Javier. It wasn't that he didn't like him, he just wasn't sure if he could trust him. Sure, he was sick, and skinny and on the verge of begging for scraps, but Arthur had trusted the wrong people for a long amount of time and wasn't willing to lose what he had now. Charles was a blessing on Earth, his own personal angel, and even if Javier didn't seem to be sneaky, there was no way to tell his intentions. As time goes on though, Arthur starts to notice how truly isolated Escuella is. </p><p>He slowly moves himself out of the hotel and into the field of tents alongside town, then further away, into the desert rocks between Snakeskin and the buildings of the community. Javier takes with him a little tent and some food, wearing the same clothes he'd been gifted but not quite stepping foot in Los Sueños in fear of something. </p><p>Maybe in fear of Arthur Morgan, famed butcher and killer. </p><p>Aide from the change into sickness and fragility during the last months in camp, Javier wouldn't have seen the way Arthur had grown. Not properly. He wouldn't have been witness to the kindness and gentleness, nor did he know of Arthur's redemption, death, then resurrection. So maybe it was time Morgan shrugged the grudge off of his shoulders and let the past go. </p><p>Rocks crunch beneath Arthur's heavy brown boots as he ascends the hillside towards the mouth of the small cave. Not deep enough to fit a man, or tall enough to let one stand within it, but just the right size for someone to mope or sulk in. The canvas tent has been pulled over the front to hide the person within, but Arthur can see the fresh boot prints in the dirt alongside the dwindling fire, can see the bottle of liquor resting against the pile of sand. He exhales and uses the end of his fishing pole to push the tent flap back, peering inside. </p><p>Javier has pointed a gun at him in caution, squinting from the sudden light in his sanctuary. He lowers the barrel, then shifts so he's leaning on his elbow instead of laying his head over a harsh, rigid rock. </p><p>"What're you doin'?" Arthur asks him. </p><p>"Resting." Escuella glances at the empty liquor bottle. "And feeling sorry for myself."</p><p>Morgan presses his tongue against the sides of his teeth and nods, briefly looking at the blinding color of the sand. "You wanna go fishin'?"</p><p>"I don't have a pole."</p><p>"That's fine," Arthur pushes the tent flap further away. "I'll watch, you just use mine."</p><p>Javier shifts, coming out of his sanctuary on his knees, then pushing himself on to his feet tiredly. "We're too far from the San Luis."</p><p>"There's a different one here. Comes all the way down from some big mountains north, runs through and to Coronado. Locals call it <em>Nuestro</em> <em>Refugio</em>. Supposed to have some damn big fish in it 'round this time of year."</p><p>Something flashes across Javier's face, something close to joy. </p><p>"You would take me fishing?"</p><p>Arthur shrugs. "Depends. You takin' my offer?"</p><p>A hand wraps around the end of the fishing pole and Morgan lets it go, giving one brief nod before turning back to his horse. He leads the animal and Javier towards the shore of Refugio, sees the shrapnel bits of the dam he'd blown up while with Presley, then slows once he hears and sees the moving water. He passes his bait over to Javier and lets the man get closer to the shore as he feeds his horse, glancing at him over his shoulder. </p><p>He doesn't even stand in the same way before. He slouches, doesn't care to manage the look of his clothing or his hair, let's it all do whatever it likes. The only thing he shows true confidence in is the way he wields the pole, casting it out as Arthur takes a seat on a rock and starts slicing an apple. </p><p>"You hungry?" Arthur asks. </p><p>"Sure."</p><p>"You like apple? I can't uh... I can't remember."</p><p>"Sure."</p><p>The blade in the apple slows as Arthur lifts his eyes and watches Javier's stooping form fishing in the waters of Nuestro Refugio, suddenly wondering what it was like to be in a camp completely run by Micah Bell. </p><p>He slips a slice of apple into his mouth and carves out a second piece, leaning to hand it to the other man. Javier takes it graciously and nibbles at it, but never quite takes a bite out of it. It starts to get brown around the edges, as does the bits of apple Arthur saves for him because he takes so long to eat it. He catches a few fish, dumps them in a bucket Arthur has taken from the saddle of his horse, sometimes reaches out to use apple as bait before he drags his legs under himself and positions himself on his haunches. </p><p>It was something John would do often as he worked, always readied on his haunches for something to come for them, or shoot at them, to kill and maim. </p><p>"You must've learned that from John." Arthur comments. Javier glances at him, then down at his boots when the bigger man motions to his pose. </p><p>Escuella's lips curl some as he reels his next fish in. It wasn't really a smile. "Sure."</p><p>Arthur presses his mouth into a firm line and looks down at his hands, sliding his thumb over the fine hairs there and following the curve of his veins into his knuckles. He brushes over the thin white scars above the bone, then the wrinkles of his finger until he curls them into his palm and speaks again. </p><p>"Is that all you can say? 'Sure'?"</p><p>A beat of silence. "Sure."</p><p>"Javier-"</p><p>Javier sighs and removes his fish from the hook, dropping it loudly into the bucket beside him before turning his head to look at Arthur. </p><p>"I didn't think you cared to have a conversation with me."</p><p> "Well, I'm tryin', ain't I?" he asks. </p><p>Javier lowers the pole against the sand and rests his hands in his lap. "What do you want to talk about, Arthur? The <em>good old days</em>? The times before the gang was infested?"</p><p>"I'm not tryin' to start an argument." he answers flatly. "Tell me about what you've been doin' these last few months."</p><p>"Running. Running, and scavenging, and hiding. Drinking, letting myself get beat by men twice my size because I'm too drunk to do anything else. Falling in with assholes because it meant I'd have a place to stay and stealing from soldiers, robbing homesteads with few occupants for food. Avoiding the Pinkerton's, then avoiding the army. Then avoiding the men I'd been running with."</p><p>"The Del Lobos..."</p><p>"I've never been in a lower place before." Javier turns his face away, shutting his eyes and sighing softly. "I think about the good days often. About how<em> little</em> Jack was when I joined and the way Abigail first passed him to me. This little bundle wrapped in some old shirts, chewing on his fist and looking at me with big eyes. That was- aside from Dutch bringing me in- the first time someone showed trust in me in a <em>long</em> time. Holding a child, a new life, and making it laugh."</p><p>Arthur nods as he looks to the ground, feels his long hair sliding off of his shoulder and coming to fall around his face. </p><p>"I remember that." he comments softly. "You said somethin' to him that had him giggling so loud... made Abigail smile, too, hearing her son laugh like he did. Meant she made a right call with you."</p><p>"Do you think about the old days?"</p><p>"Hard not to sometimes. They were my family, you know. Dutch was something special to me, and maybe it was because I was so blind in the face of his shit that I followed him for so long. Hosea was a better pa than I could've ever asked for, and Susan was a force of nature that kept my wild side in check. John was-" he wheezes out a chuckle, not blind to the way Javier looks at him with a brief flash of concern. "-he was a god damn <em>menace</em>, but he was special to me to. My brother."</p><p>"...what about Bessie? Hosea's wife?"</p><p>Arthur's jaw sets as he thinks about her being held by Hosea one last time before being lowered into her grave. </p><p>"A crack shot and a loving woman. I think she... I think she held us together, in some way. The most neutral ground in lots of cases. Might've been why we started rotting after she died."</p><p>"My mother held my family together when I was a child," Javier explains in an almost dreamlike tone. "When she passed on, it was like a thread unraveled between us. Everyone split off, or got violent, cousins died because they'd been brash in front of the army, or shot their mouths off in front of bandits. It was some miracle the gang held together like it did following Bessie's death."</p><p>Arthur nods. "Sure... I think the same thing happened for us. It just took a lot longer."</p><p>Javier shifts on the rocks and scratches at the black beard that has grown on his face. "Hosea, he taught me to fish."</p><p>"Is that right?"</p><p>"Well, sort of. I already knew, but he polished it off when I was in the gang. Taught me all of my tricks!"</p><p>Arthur chuckles though his heart feels heavy. "Sounds like Hosea to me. A good man, that was for sure. John and I never had the patience to sit too long fishin', not until I was older and Hosea was-was coughin' real hard."</p><p>"Coughing, but not like you."</p><p>He shakes his head and suddenly the Matthews' gun in his holster feels like a rock. </p><p>"No. He didn't have what I had."</p><p>"...which was?"</p><p>"Tuberculosis. I got it beatin' that Downes man for his money, and I guess it progressed thanks to the life I lived and gettin' trapped on Guarma." his eyes flick up to Javier. "That leg still give you trouble?"</p><p>The other man shakes his head hesitantly. "Only when it's too cold."</p><p>"That's good. Good thing you're in New Austin and not the Grizzlies. You'd wish you'd lost it."</p><p>Javier's face doesn't change. "You <em>had</em> TB? You're trying to tell me it went away?"</p><p>"Not quite." Arthur sits up straight and folds his hands together. "Ignorin' everything else that happened the final night at Beaver Hollow, I got trapped by Micah on a ridge and we fought it out. Dutch-" he clenches his jaw and thinks of steel-toed boots. "Anyways, I shut my eyes as the sun rose and didn't wake up proper for the next two months. My body weren't the same after that, not just 'cause I lost so much weight, or because Charles' couldn't help me shave while I was asleep, but my lungs didn't hurt no more."</p><p>Escuella shifts in something akin to interest.</p><p>"You died."</p><p>Arthur nods, then smiles. "Sure."</p><p>Javier gives a small smile in return. "Are you a ghost? Or undead?"</p><p>Morgan shrugs his shoulders and scratches at his chin. "I've seen ghosts- I ain't no ghost."</p><p>Escuella chuckles, something low and deep in his throat as he looks back at the water. "The American Jesus."</p><p>"Huh?"</p><p>"Jesus-" Javier's smile widens. "He resurrected after three days and left his tomb."</p><p>"Now I ain't sure the son of God and I got much in common, Javier." Arthur plants his hands on his knees and stands. "Except- well... nothin', actually."</p><p>Escuella chuckles again and this time it sounds more natural, less like hurt and more like amusement. </p><p>"Now," Arthur says as he leans over the bucket. "What'd you catch?"</p><p>=</p><p>They make a big dinner of fish that evening. A feast shared with the town, with their friends and their neighbors. They share it with the people that gave Javier clothes and those that treated them as allies, Morgan seeing Presley after he dishes out the final plate for a stranger with hungry eyes. </p><p>He takes his plate away from the main thoroughfare and the sound of laughter behind the hotel, where the alleyway was adorned with crates and ripped bed-sheets were used as tablecloths. This is where he finds Charles and Javier sharing a meal, having quietly slipped away moments before he had and now dining together on companionable silence. </p><p>Arthur seats himself on the crate closest to Smith and the other man knocks their elbows together in silent greeting, the blond nodding to him before picking up his spoon and shoveling his meal in his mouth. Javier watches them with keen eyes, his reactions slow as Arthur catches him staring. Something creeps up Morgan's spine at it, maybe mistrust, maybe fear, but he doesn't dwell on it. </p><p>If Javier had something to say about the way two men treated each other, he'd say it. Arthur wouldn't waste his time trying to pry something out of Escuella that the other man wasn't keen on sharing. </p><p>There were stories, anyways. Tales Bill would mutter trying to smear Javier's name. Ways he'd try to get under Javi's skin, only to be sent cowering with a glance. Stories that would make a nun blush and have a preacher fixing his collar. </p><p>He pauses as he thinks of mentioning them, but he settles on silence. It was kind anyhow, the way that they could now sit together like old friends and share a meal at their ugly little table. The music continues from the front of the hotel, the plucking of violin strings finding their way past the wooden slats and drying paint. voices like a soft melody as Arthur scrapes his spoon against the bottom of his bowl and brings it back to his lips. </p><p>It was like a memory wrought out of him. </p><p>Arthur finds that he's stopped when Charles' gentle fingers press against his wrist. He turns his head partially and brings his eyes to the other man's, sees the concern and the love in his gaze and just gives a stiff nod before lowering his spoon again. And it's like Charles can read his mind, because he sets his own fork down and eases his hand from the surface of the table to Arthur's thigh, squeezing just above his knee for comfort. </p><p>But when Morgan looks across their table, he sees Javier staring absently too. He's thinking of nights around campfires with found family and joyous friends, of parties they had and drunken fiascoes. Memories of times long past and days they'd never be getting back, people that weren't meant for the world as it was. </p><p>Rough voices slurring lyrics and dirty fingers strumming banjo strings, wandering hands clapping each other on the back and dusty boots kicking up rocks as they danced. Cowboys, cowgirls, gunslingers, conmen and women... </p><p>Memories and the past that once stood as a reminder of their alliances which were now only images flashing behind the backs of their eyes. </p><p>He settles on his crate and leans into Charles as he drops his eyes from Javier's. There's too much emptiness and sadness in the other man's eyes for him to find comfort, nothing good to be found in Escuella just yet. Only a man that was still healing from his hurt and that was coming to terms with what had been and what was lost. </p><p>Charles fingers intertwine with his own and Arthur shuts his eyes as he listens to the echoes of voices, squeezing his lover's hand and pressing his cheek against the bigger man's shoulder. And Smith lets him, runs his thumb over Arthur's knuckle and even presses his lips to the crown of Arthur's head. </p><p>The voices continue from the front of the hotel and Arthur takes in a breath, feeling like he was being chased by ghosts. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Viudas de América</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charles Smith is a smart man. His intelligence was often doubted by those around him for his size, his skin, and his heritage. But he could use that to his advantage most days. Like an underdog rising from the dust and startling his opponents back, he'd been wandering for ages until he came across the gang. </p><p>And that intelligence radiating off of Dutch had been what dragged him in. An acceptance, some kind of love. Life was hard, but in that gang Charles felt that he belonged somewhere, especially since he had little knowledge of where to find his mother's tribe or his family. </p><p>It was something he'd let Arthur be privy to many times, and especially as they grew closer following the events of Blackwater. It was part of the reason why Arthur was so mad when he woke up and saw that Smith was there, that Charles had left his place with the Wapiti to drag Arthur's half-conscious body through Pinkerton territory to the rotting land of Tumbleweed. </p><p>But with Arthur's resurrection, there was another chance for them both. Arthur had the opportunity to lead his new life as someone better than he was allowed previously, and now that Charles was mostly forgotten by the federal government, they could make their way to Canada and affiliate themselves properly. Charles could find Rains Fall, and Paytah, he could take his place with the Wapiti again. </p><p>He and Arthur had daydreamed about their futures, something that they couldn't have done when they were with the gang. When there were thousands of dollars posted on their heads and sly eyes of lawmen following their every movement. </p><p>The longtime suffering lead into repentance, and that repentance lead into resurrection. The worst of them, like Swanson, had even managed to turn their lives around for the better in the face of hardship. </p><p>But one person that lingered on Charles thoughts, despite the obvious snakes and weasels, was Sadie Adler. </p><p>The woman who had been ripped to shreds and put herself back together again, by hand, surviving on hate and spite until it could eventually grow into proper love. What that love was, Charles couldn't truly say. But he couldn't very well see her making peace with Jake's death any time soon. Her eyes to Abigail read more than a sisterly bond at often times, but maybe that was just Smith reading too far into things. </p><p>Her wedding ring still hung around her neck and Sadie swore she'd never play that harmonica for anyone but her love, for Jake. Charles and Javier were the only ones that knew that Arthur was alive and he knew that Sadie loved Morgan like a brother. They were family, after all, despite how it went to hell in the end. </p><p>So when they read in the paper that a demon-woman was protecting girls at Casa Madrugada, they'd hopped on the chance of running into her. Maybe it wasn't Sadie, maybe it was another woman, a local that had taken up arms for her sisters. But later descriptions sounded familiar, like the scar on her face and the burning fire in her eyes. The way she'd fight, and shoot, and slice men's fingers off without a second thought. </p><p>Javier was simply a detour. A friend, an ally, almost a brother, though they were still working on their relationship. Strained, but Javier spoke of his own stories of the demon-woman reigning over Diez Coronas. </p><p>Charles and Arthur take the trail from Los Sueños to the boat on the San Luis, balancing together in the center with their horses before docking and taking the worn, winding trails through the rock faces and higher before they reach the border of Punta Orgullo. Sweat drips down their backs as they ride, making small conversation as they go east through the arid desert and past Escalera. </p><p>It's a long while before they reach Casa Madrugada, little more than bothered by bandits or desperate folk trying to hold them up. Hungry coyotes try their luck when the men make camp, but nothing more happens as they cook hunted game and watch the stars above them. </p><p>They keep Casa Madrugada in their line of sight, watching the flickering of torches and the twitching tails of horses. They hear some shots during the night, hooting from those victorious, distant howls of animals in the night. Charles sips his coffee in the morning and decides to approach Casa Madrugada alone, leaving Arthur with his guns in his tent. </p><p>He follows the cracking white wall into the dusty courtyard and roams his eyes over the shuttered windows as he slows in the midst of it, turning his head as a drunkard stumbles over their own feet and falls into the dirt. The last drops of their beer spill from their bottle as they nap and Charles steps past them, taking the clay pathway around the side of the building and keeping his ears tuned for any other movements.</p><p>Girls are smoking in the small space between the back wall and the rear of the building. They roam their eyes over him as he enters and they easily read that he's uninterested in them, but their lowered cigarettes reveal that they're aware he's searching for someone. Charles' eyes flick to the stain of blood in the sand and one of the girls turns to look at it, then breathes out a laugh. </p><p>"That's what happened to the last American who tried playing hero," she brings her smoke back to her lips and jerks her head to the shattered shutters beside her. </p><p>Charles says nothing as he steps past her and kneels beside the blood. Dried, a few hours old. His eyes shoot past the broken shutters and into the room that the body of the individual had been thrown and slips his head inside. He braces himself on the clay windowsill and looks over the room, how sparse it is aside from the sharp knife in a body's chest. Charles clambers through the window and moves carefully through the bedroom before kneeling beside the body. </p><p>It's obvious that there was a major struggle before the <em>American hero</em> managed to kill. The dresser is overturned, it's drawers are littered on the ground. Charles can see a few teeth on the floor and when he checks the body, he finds it came from this man. The lock on the door is broken too, shot through with a slug. </p><p>He approaches the armoire and pulls the lesser ruined door aside, removing one of the dusty boots. It's light brown, heel worn down with scrapes over it's toe. It's very small, and Charles understands immediately that these boots must have belonged to Sadie. </p><p>Charles takes the boots and the knife and exits out of the window, finding the girls still smoking in the back. He gets vague descriptions out of them- <em>blonde, I guess</em> - <em>I thought she was ginger?</em> - <em>maybe she was just dirty</em>- and exits Casa Madrugada. </p><p>If Sadie was taken by whoever her attackers were, then they must have valued her horse. Bob was a fine animal, courageous, and it was safe to say that he also wouldn't go down without a fight. He wasn't present at the hitching posts, nor could he see any sign f the animal in the valley once he starts tracking the hoard of hoof prints exiting the front of Casa Madrugada.</p><p>Arthur has already packed their things up and his sipping from his canteen when Charles arrives. The boots and knife are stuffed into their saddlebags soundlessly and Arthur climbs on to the back of his horse without question, following Charles as the bigger man continues tracking their suspects. </p><p>"The gunshots we heard last night," Arthur says. "That must have been her fightin' 'em back."</p><p>"We couldn't have known," Charles keeps his eyes on the dirt as the hoofs crane off of the main trail and towards the canyon. "This place is a mess, and it was only a few shots before it stopped. They hardly made any noise aside from that."</p><p>"Then <em>they</em> must be trained somehow. Maybe military?"</p><p>"I can't think of a reason why Sadie would've made the army mad, but it's Sadie." Arthur lets out a breathy chuckle behind him as they grow closer to the magnificent, natural structures of red rock. "Stay on your guard. There's a camp ahead and lots of higher ground."</p><p>He hears Arthur cautiously pulling his repeater from his saddle and he eases the tension in his back. Still leading, Charles adjusts the brim of his hat and follows up the incline of the dusty hill towards the fire and tents. Here, the men chewing their meals glance up and the biggest one stands with his hands on his guns, spitting a mass from his mouth and against the rocks. </p><p>"<em>¿Estas perdido?</em>" the man asks. "Like dog?"</p><p>Charles slows his horse and Arthur sidles up beside him, brim of his hat shadowing his eyes as he watches the men. Charles jerks his head to the moving mass under the blankets and the men glance to it as he speaks. </p><p>"Blankets don't move on their own." he says. "What's under there?"</p><p>"<em>Cachorros</em>." the big man shrugs his shoulders, stiffening as Charles dismounts. "Nothing important."</p><p>Charles hears the mass trying to make noises and he glances at Arthur before both men unholster their guns. The bandits pause, deciding whether or not they could win this fight before two of them draw. Arthur shoots them down in quick succession and the other bandits shift away in fear, a few turning tail and running from them. Morgan drops down from the saddle as the biggest man starts inching for the blankets, Charles pointing the barrel of his gun at him. </p><p>"Don't move." he instructs. </p><p>Arthur grabs the big man around the wrists and slams him into the dirt, binding him while the scared men on the dirt cower away in fear. One of them points and says <em>Dama Muerte</em> as Charles hurriedly approaches the mass on the ground, grabbing the edges of the blankets and pulling them back. Beneath him is Sadie, glaring and squinting angrily up at him, attempting to focus on his form. He kneels and removes the bandana around her mouth as Arthur scares the other men from their guns, shouting <em>¡vamonos!</em> at them when they don't move fast enough. </p><p>Sadie rolls her wrists when Charles cuts the binding and she looks at him blearily, the side of her head wounded and dark red blood cementing her hair in matted spots. Smith eases himself on to his knees and carefully parts her hair to find the wound, discovering it to be a graze against her skull but nothing more. </p><p>"What'd you do to piss them off?" he asks as Sadie accepts her knife from him. </p><p>"Sent the girls they liked abusing the most west, down San Luis to California." she touches her split lip carefully, skin dry and dusty as Charles uses his pure mass to give her some shade. She looks at him gratefully, eye twitching in pain as she presses her fingers to her temple. "It's real nice to see you, but how'd you find me?"</p><p>The corner of his mouth lifts. "The newspapers started writing about a woman close to your description."</p><p>"Up in Canada?" His face falls and he shakes his head, ignoring her inquisitive stare as he helps her to her feet. Something that she wouldn't have accepted not too long ago, before Lakay and judgement day on the street in Saint Denis. "You didn't get to Canada, did you?"</p><p>"We could hear the gunfight from the reservation." he tells her softly, checking the bruises around her wrists to give him somewhere to focus on. "The final night of the Van Der Linde's..."</p><p>Sadie takes his hands in hers for a brief moment and there's a second of silence, remembrance of those that they lost. Charles almost forgets that Arthur survived before he hears the heavy fall of Morgan's boots against the dirt, making himself well-known as not to startle them. Smith opens his eyes the same time as Sadie and steps out of her line of vision, fingers leaving her hands as her lips part and she focuses on the cowboy. </p><p>He removes that wide-brimmed hat in a sheepish manner, like a shy boy, and presses it against his chest. Arthur isn't sure what to do, or what to say. There's a developing bruise on his cheekbone so one of the bandits must have gotten a good hit on him before they either ran off, or he knocked his attacker out. But compared to what he used to look like, pale, ill, eyes purple and body shrinking, he looks reborn. New and healthy, Arthur Morgan back from the dead and stilling Sadie Adler into stunned silence. </p><p>
  <em>"-stabbed that man and finished her fight for revenge," smoke wafted to Charles nose as Arthur stoked the campfire. "Gave herself and Jake some kinda peace and-and said to me that I was one of the best men she'd ever known. I'm not sure when I started believin' folk when they said that, but as I was dyin' on that cliff, I thought about what she said. Among other things, 'course. Like the things you've said to me. What the most important people in my life have done..."</em>
</p><p>"Mrs. Adler," Arthur greets. </p><p>Sadie takes a step forth and in one of the most vulnerable ways Charles has ever seen her, cries. He guides her to Arthur and wraps his arms around the both of them as they tug him in, covering them both as Sadie cries into Arthur's collar. Charles grips the backs of their shirts and lets his tears fall as they grasp each other, listening to the raspy gasps and the pained sounds as Sadie helps herself understand that this <em>was</em> real.</p><p>Charles pulls back once the gasping has died down and brushes some stray hairs away from Sadie's face, watching as she wipes the tears and snot from her skin hurriedly. Arthur wipes his own tears and gives her a small smile once she looks up, sliding her arm around her as she gives him one last small hug. </p><p>She nods at Charles. </p><p>"I thought you were in Canada, and Arthur here was dead."</p><p>"We're hopin' the law keeps believin' that." Arthur says, then checks over his shoulder. "We should get out of here. Do you have any belongings we need to get?"</p><p>Sadie shakes her head and narrows her eyes. "They shot Bob. There's nothing left here for me."</p><p>Arthur pats her shoulder gently and points at their own horses. "We'll get you across the river and cleaned up soon. Get you a comfortable bed, too."</p><p>=</p><p>Getting Sadie out of Mexico is easier than they had previously thought. Though bands of soldiers patrol the deserts, they aren't sent more than a glance or two as they move, slow riders that make their way to their boat and clamber on. </p><p>Arthur pushes their boat leisurely from the shore as not to draw more attention to themselves and Charles sits with Sadie, passing her ointments to treat the cuts and scrapes she had. She takes these gifts with deft and and quiet thanks before popping the cork out of the bottle, tipping it to wet her bandana. </p><p>Smith leans in and watches as she does so, then averts his eyes to the calm waters of San Luis, thoughts drifting of evenings spent on the shore with Arthur. Soft kisses, warm touches. Embraces that felt like lightning. Going back for the other man had been his wisest choice in his life, and though both he and Arthur longed for Canada, they would make it in time. With the chickens and the cats, and the little cabin they would live in. </p><p>Something nudges his ribs and Charles blinks back to reality, glancing at Sadie. Her eyes have been studying him for a good few minutes and he's managed to not take any notice. The corner of her lips rise in subtle amusement before she passes the bottle back to him and finishes wiping a gash across the back of her arm. </p><p>"Never seen you so distracted, Charles. I know shit changes in a few years, but..." </p><p>He straightens and turns his eyes to Arthur instead. Lingers on the man's arms and the working muscles showing themselves beneath the skin. Sadie pauses at that, takes an assessment for herself before snorting out a quiet laugh and walking to the edge of their badly built boat. </p><p>He joins her casually, watches the land of America grow closer ahead of them and feels Sadie leaning into him. Charles leans back, but he isn't sure what for. They had forged a good relationship during Lakay, despite the events that took place. Beaver Hollow had been a round of keeping Micah away from Jack and the women, something which all three of them had to deal with. </p><p>But Arthur was out on jobs. Or, if it wasn't jobs, it was out meeting strangers and trying to breathe through those riddled lungs. </p><p>That left Sadie and Charles most days, especially when Javier felt too scrutinized beneath Dutch's far-off stare. John had been in jail, and when he wasn't, he was with his family and finding his place in the mess. Getting his footing and trying to stand tall for his son and his woman. </p><p>Charles and Sadie, they hadn't been excluded from the family, but they weren't around long enough to be fully part of it. Sure, they were brothers and sisters, close friends and family. But it wasn't like what Tilly had with John and Arthur. Or what Sean had with Lenny. Nor what Mary-Beth had with all of the younger women. </p><p>A couple times, it was just Charles, Sadie, and silence. </p><p>Town is an inviting place once they arrive. Arthur starts setting up a place in their small home for Sadie's bed when she declines taking their own, begins searching for spare blankets, cushions, some pillows. Adler doesn't need to motion for Charles to follow her out of the side door and into the trail that snaked its way towards town. </p><p>He can hear the sounds of wagons and chatter from here, a never-ending noise that became like a song some days. </p><p>Sadie lights a cigarette and takes a long drag on it, then passes it over to Charles. He breathes the smoke into his lungs and holds it for a second, exhaling it through his nose as the rolled paper goes back into Mrs. Adler's ownership. </p><p>"He was dyin'." she mutters. </p><p>Charles swallows the taste of tobacco and hums. </p><p>"He's real?"</p><p>Smith turns his head, eyes on the slight shake of her hand. </p><p>"Yes. Arthur's real, and living."</p><p>She sniffs and nods gently before dragging the side of her hand beneath her eye in haste. Wiping away tears she doesn't want to fall. The muscles in her jaw work for a few seconds before he hears her swallow. </p><p>"I been missin' him." she admits in a way that only Sadie Adler could make sound strong. Vulnerability mixed with that steely, gravelly voice. "Mournin' him ever since the papers said they got his bounty."</p><p>Charles reaches out slowly and brings his arm around Sadie's shoulders. Adler doesn't stiffen, but she doesn't give in- just smokes her cigarette and stares at the moving forms of townsfolk until he talks. </p><p>"He died for everybody that he loved... John, Jack, Abigail, you. Its not the same when its coming from me, but he considers you a friend. Always has, since you two warmed up to each other at Clemens. And... Sadie, he's been missing you and hoping that he could find you before you got yourself <em>really</em> hurt. More than any cut a Del Lobo could give you."</p><p>Sadie snorts gently and leans into him. </p><p>"But we got him now. From living with him for so long, I can tell you that he's not afraid of doing good anymore. The outlaw was something to be reckoned with, but that died the night you both saved Abigail." he feels his throat close up and he tightens his arm around his friend. "So don't-don't think of yourself as a nuisance, or a problem to be dealt with. You're my friend too. </p><p>We don't have to be ghosts."</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>